The world tends to split into two kinds of people: Doers and Non-Doers.
When you think of someone, chances are you instinctively know which category they fall into.
Given the state of the world today, there has never been a more urgent time to understand where each of us stands.
Growing up, we were taught a simple truth—by parents, teachers, and every anti-bullying lecture preached to us: The only thing worse than a bully is the bystander who does nothing.
Now, as history repeats itself in real time, we face a centuries-old truth:
There are people who want to rid the world of Jews.
And there are those who stand by and watch it happen.
It doesn’t always look like violence. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s neutrality dressed up as nuance. And sometimes, it’s the people we love—friends, colleagues, influencers—choosing to stay quiet, to “not get involved,” to keep things comfortable. But make no mistake: doing nothing is a decision. Inaction has consequences. And for the Jewish people, we know too well where indifference can lead.
Before October 7th, blatant Jew-hatred was sneakily hidden from mainstream media and dialogue. It lived in coded language, quiet double standards, and the uncomfortable jokes we were told not to take too seriously. It showed up in the way antisemitism was downplayed, redirected, or dismissed as “complicated.” But after October 7th, the mask came off. The world didn’t just fail to stand with Jews—it turned against us. The silence got louder. The hatred got bolder. And for many of us, something inside us changed. We realized that the world wouldn’t come to our defense unless we spoke first.
On October 7th, 2023, I was in Lisbon, Portugal, surrounded by people who weren’t Jewish. As the news began to unfold, it became painfully clear that the way I was experiencing that day—and everything that followed—was fundamentally different. That moment became a turning point. I turned inward, toward my Judaism and my Jewish community. Not just for comfort, but because it was the only place I didn’t have to explain what I was feeling. I simply was understood.
As my phone lit up with messages and calls from family and friends—names of people we knew who had been at Nova, some killed, others taken hostage—I felt my world unraveling in real time. And yet, around me, the group I was traveling with was still “trying to have a good time.” Their lives were untouched. Mine was breaking apart in front of them—and they didn’t know what to say. So the majority didn’t say anything at all.
I knew on October 8th, I needed to do something.
I reached out to the head of HR at my company after noticing the silence. There had been no message acknowledging the terrorist attack in Israel—despite the fact that, just months earlier, the company had sent internal emails and Slack messages addressing the war in Ukraine, the earthquake in Turkey, and other global tragedies.
When I asked why this time was different, I was told that the company typically doesn’t comment on “geopolitical events.” But eventually, they said a message would be shared.
Nearly a week later, that message came. And what followed in the workplace—comments, microaggressions, and an overwhelming sense of isolation—were things I never imagined I’d experience in America, especially in a company that prided itself on DEI.
“All Zionists are demonic” was written in a public slack channel within months of the October 7th attack. There were no consequences. No accountability. That same quarter—after significant pushback—we held an antisemitism training led by a legitimate, apolitical organization. At the end of the session, a journalist, camera off, stated that as a journalist, they were entitled to reveal “all truths,” even if those truths were considered antisemitic.
I sat there stunned, thinking: Would anyone ever feel comfortable saying something like that about another minority group—especially at the end of a training meant to support that very group?
After spending months talking to our DEI department, writing messages in our anonymous support forum, and being outspoken in our Jewish support group channel, I knew it was time for me to leave, since I didn’t even feel comfortable telling my coworkers that I was traveling to Israel for my best friend's wedding.
We spend, on average, one-third of our lives at work—about 90,000 hours. That stat stayed with me as I sat in meetings and wrote emails in an environment that felt increasingly hostile and unsafe. The feeling had been brewing long before October 7th, but it was in that moment I knew: I needed to live a life of purpose. I wanted my work to matter—to contribute to something bigger than myself and leave a real impact on people’s lives.
That clarity led me to a decision I’d dreamed about for years: I was going to make aliyah.
On February 12, 2025, I finally took the leap. I left a corporate career I had spent years building—one I had once dreamed of—because I believed something better was waiting. Not just professionally, but personally. I wanted to live in the place that felt most like home, surrounded by people who didn’t just accept my identity, but embraced it. My Judaism isn’t a part of me—it’s all of me. I knew I was walking into a new chapter of “doing something.”
After one month of living in Israel and being unemployed, I was introduced to Bucky, our CEO, and it quickly became clear to me that my yearning for purposeful work was going to be made into a reality. As someone who always has spoken out when others have stayed silent, who always took risks and pushed the envelope for things worth fighting for, I felt completely aligned with the work in front of me for the first time.
In life, we’re constantly given a choice: we can respond to our circumstances with action, or we can sit back and let things unfold without us.
It’s rare to find people who not only talk about change—but actually follow through. Somehow, I’ve found myself in a workplace where every single person is self-driven, motivated by purpose, and committed to being a doer. It’s not just inspiring—it’s energizing. And it reminds me every day that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Life isn’t about what happens to us—it’s about how we choose to respond. We can let circumstances define us, or we can decide to move forward with purpose, even when it’s hard.
So I’ll leave you with this: What would happen if, instead of waiting for the perfect moment, you chose to do something and make a change—right now?