“You look really great, by the way.”

“You’re skinny. Am I allowed to say that?”

I’ve heard many iterations of these questions and comments over the past three years as I have slowly but surely lost weight. I have not had any secrets or supplements to aid me beyond a basic caloric deficit and an elevated workout routine. I used an app subscription program for the first year or so, and now I monitor my activity with a fitness tracker, but I am not always consistent. I’ve had many plateaus and setbacks, and my motivation ebbs and flows with the seasons, yet the results are clear.

I’ve been reluctant to speak directly about my weight loss because I don’t want to lend it more significance than I believe it should have. Yet so many feel compelled to address the difference in my appearance when they recognize it. It’s one thing to receive encouragement from close friends in whom you’ve confided your goals, but it’s another matter entirely with old acquaintances who couldn’t immediately recognize you. You suddenly realize how much everyone’s minds had coded you as overweight, something you so desperately hoped they’d overlook. Receiving compliments often retroactively validates my fears of being valued less because I weighed more.

Of course, being overweight should not be viewed as inherently negative. But for many in Western society, that is exactly the case. When others tell me I look good, the implication is I looked bad at a larger size. Many have subconsciously internalized our society’s messaging that skinny is superior and fat is a moral failing. I’m well aware I carry this implicit bias, too.

I grew up with far too much shame around my body to ever have a healthy relationship with it. I was awkwardly tall for my age, towering above my classmates until middle school. I wasn’t exactly fat, despite being labeled as such by some boys at summer camp, but I was never thin. I stood out in gym class where I wanted my lack of athletic prowess to go unnoticed, and in ballet where I wished I looked more like the other girls. I regret being complicit in the teasing of other children who were heavier, perhaps hoping they would pull focus from me while simultaneously affirming I was not like them. My insecurities were exacerbated by my family’s judgments about how much I was eating and my mother’s insistence I’d be “as big as a house” if I continued, often using overweight relatives for reference. I watched my father replace full meals with cans of Slim-Fast, lamenting what had become of his physique, with little lenience for the disease he’d developed that made movement difficult and painful.

This was the 1990s and early aughts, when diet culture was at its peak. Concerns about “health” were often conflated with more superficial interests. Despite more recent scientific findings to the contrary, weight is still seen as an indicator of overall physical well-being. I’ve certainly received extra consideration from new fitness instructors who’ve incorrectly assumed I had not done an exercise before, as well as unsolicited advice from gym junkies insisting I just had to find the right workout for me. Never mind that not since I was four years old have I not been active in some form of dance, the only exception being the years after college when I was too broke to pay for classes.

Privilege and access should be far greater considerations for anyone worried about Americans’ health. Overweight individuals are all too familiar with having their legitimate medical concerns neglected due to their BMI. My long-suspected thyroid disease remained undiagnosed and overlooked till I was 23. In the preceding decade, not one doctor thought to test my antibodies to confirm that despite normal levels of thyroid hormones, my immune system was attacking them. Hashimoto’s thyroiditis runs in my family and I’d exhibited symptoms for years, yet every suspicion was dismissed with each routine blood test. Perhaps I was seeking an easy-out for my insatiable appetite and weight gain, or so it was implied on more than one occasion. This occurred with decent health insurance under reputable providers, privileges unattainable for many Americans. Society then disparages these individuals when their bodies suffer accordingly.

A lot of damage was done as my thyroid went untreated and bad habits were formed. I spent most of my twenties in survival mode, eating emotionally and bogged down by student debt. I avoided dating, convinced no worthy partner would want me in my present form. I’d seen how men responded to me at various sizes and the differences were distinct. Despite the assurance of others that many men appreciated bodies like mine, I refused to accept my current weight as an integral part of my identity. I bought clothing that was too small and leaned on self-imposed prerequisites of improvement before embracing life. I lived somewhere between denial and delusion, protecting myself from the self-loathing that would ensue were I to face reality without the means or motivation to do things differently.

I ultimately concluded that to be comfortable in my own skin, I either had to love and accept my body as it was, or I had to change it. And I just could not accept myself as I was. I reached the point where I hated my appearance more than I enjoyed eating any food. I don’t believe this to be a healthy or aspirational mindset and I am deeply uncomfortable with the ideals this narrative perpetuates, but I had to arrive at that place to sustain the willpower required. Ironically, it was only once I was several pounds down, farther removed from my fears, that I saw how debilitating they’d become.

The truth is I have worked hard to lose weight and it can be nice to have that recognized. Yet I hesitate to acknowledge it outright because I spent so many years rejecting the relevance of my size. There is a lot of trauma and heartache for me in this area of which most people congratulating my success are entirely unaware. I do not want to concede victory to the forces that have made me and countless others feel so devalued and demoralized. Rather than portray my weight loss as a journey with a happy ending, I’d rather diminish its significance entirely.

I was a complete and worthy person before I lost weight, despite all the internal and external distortions that told me otherwise. All my best qualities have been here all along. The most important work I’ve done on myself in the past few years is not toning and tuning my body, but healing and mending my mental health. Addressing some childhood wounds and the deeper sources of my self-doubt has given me a far greater quality of life than any physical transformation.

I don’t want to be seen as a mere before and after photo, which is why I’ve never posted those cliché, side-by-side comparisons. I resist the urge to scrub old images of myself from the internet, remembering that how I felt in those moments is far more important than how I looked. I try not to dwell on what my life could have been had I received proper medical care earlier or had I made changes sooner. Not only was I doing my best with what I had at the time, but I also question how much any of it should really matter. While I’m proud to have accomplished something I once feared out of reach, I don’t want this transformation to (forgive the pun) carry too much weight.

Any increased confidence I now have cannot be analyzed independently of the public’s gaze. I agree, I do look better! But I’m aware these opinions are rooted in internalized fatphobia and ableism. The alterations we make to our bodies that we claim to do for ourselves, no matter how painstaking or severe, still contain elements of conformity, subconscious as they may be. I will not argue looks are irrelevant and I understand we are biologically inclined to derive pleasure from aesthetically appealing things. I too want to feel beautiful! Yet most of those noting my increased allure are not potential romantic partners. Should beauty make such a dramatic difference for the rest of the world?

The digital era has only intensified the power of the beauty industrial complex. Unattainable standards continuously evolve to torment teen girls and set unrealistic expectations for young men. While shame is widely marketed to women of all shapes and sizes, fatness is actively marginalized and discriminated against. I suspect our collective contempt will only worsen with the proliferation of Ozempic and similar drugs for anyone well-off or well-connected enough to get their hands on them. Combined with the American Academy of Pediatrics’ aggressive new guidelines for combating childhood obesity, I can’t imagine our youth won’t suffer increased incidents of body dysmorphia and eating disorders. Even as I continue to lose weight, I do not anticipate truly loving my body any time soon. If a man I find attractive does not reciprocate, I still conclude it’s because I’m too fat.

I know most people are well-intentioned when praising my slimmer frame, even if it is not their place. Though I remain conflicted about receiving these compliments, I almost always graciously accept them. Yet instead of uniformly asking the public not to comment on someone else’s body, I’d rather we ask ourselves why we’re compelled to comment in the first place. Why do we assume weight loss, and all the potential reasons for it, are inherently positive? What implicit biases are we carrying that tell us something is better about a person when they’re thinner? Even if we find them more attractive, how relevant is that to us or our relationship to them? Does their smaller size fundamentally improve our perception of them? If so, that says far more about us as the observers than those whose weight loss is observed.

My appearance, like everyone else’s, is not fixed. While I hope to maintain the changes I’ve made, I know my weight will continue to fluctuate throughout the duration of my life. Yet the characteristics I am most proud of will remain constant against any number on a scale. These are the traits by which I’d rather be defined.

Consider complimenting me on them, instead.

1. Welcome to a new decade!

I wanted to get you something special to mark the occasion, but you’re impossible to shop for and I wasn’t just going to give you cash again. So instead I decided to share with you the greatest gift of all; my mind. (There are some books coming in the mail, too.)

2. It’s also your Hebrew birthday — Mazal Tov!

Everyone turning 30 in the year 5783 has their birthday lined up accordingly on the Hebrew calendar. Yours is the 16th of Iyar. Some sages say that everything we do on our birthday has elevated significance, so do some mitzvahs and give blessings to others.

3. It’s going to reset you in ways you will not anticipate.

I remember being 29 and content to do my thing, thinking another birthday wouldn’t change much. Then 30 hit and suddenly I was at an existential crossroads I did not anticipate. There was also a looming global pandemic, so maybe I was tuned into forces beyond myself, but being so strongly affected really threw me. If you’re feeling a little apprehensive about this birthday, you’re certainly not alone.

4. Much of your 20s were wasted on insecurity and student debt.

Being 30 means less of both those things. While I am slightly bitter that my peers with rich parents could truly reap the benefits of their youth post-college, I feel I’m much better situated to embrace life than I was in the decade prior. And while it doesn’t excuse American economic inequality, we’re much better people for not having everything handed to us when we were young. Our bodies might not exactly be in their prime anymore, but they can still do a lot!

5. Giving less fucks sets you free.

The older you get, the less fucks you have to give. The less fucks you have to give, the more you prioritize the things worth giving a fuck about and let go of all the petty bullshit. It’s quite liberating.

6. Embrace your weirdness.

All the inexplicable habits and niche interests you had as a kid are probably the coolest things about you as an adult. It’s hard to recognize that sometimes since we once felt shame around them and were often picked on because of them (sorry about that, btw), but now they make you endearing and interesting! Your crush on Velma from Scooby Doo? Your obsession with the Lincoln assassination? Your enthusiasm for women’s gymnastics? All cool as hell. The way you used to rock yourself incessantly? Still weird, but that’s the point!

7. Embrace some spirituality.

We all need to find meaning in this world. Even the most devout atheists are obsessed with crystals and astrology. Your source doesn’t have to be Judaism, although coming from a tradition that values learning and lovingkindness isn’t something you should readily dismiss. However you connect to something greater than yourself is relevant, but don’t forget to connect.

8. Keep learning new things.

No matter how old you get, you should always continue to grow and evolve. Try a new activity. Take up a new hobby. Swap a half hour of TV for a half hour of reading before bed. Keep falling down those Wikipedia rabbit holes and share what you’ve learned with others (including me).

9. Keep making new friends.

They say it’s harder to make friends as an adult, but putting myself out there and doing so has helped me grow in ways I did not anticipate. I’ve connected with people even since turning 30 that I couldn’t imagine never having met. And no matter the distance, real friends will always be in your life.

10. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Always be true to your word to the extent possible. Honor your commitments and show up for others. Sometimes we have to have uncomfortable conversations with loved ones or share some hard truths because we care about them enough to do so. Being “nice” is not the same thing as being kind.

11. Don’t do something permanently stupid because you’re temporarily upset.

When you’re emotionally triggered, the part of your brain that controls rational thought shuts down. Don’t make any impulsive decisions while you’re in this state. Try your hardest not to fly off the handle and say things you can’t take back. Having intense emotions is completely normal and very human, but learning to be mindful about what you are feeling and why can help you to regulate your response.

12. Go to therapy.

I promise you, if done right, it will help you discover things within yourself and give you a greater sense of being than you ever thought possible. Break the cycle and do not let your loved ones suffer for your wounds and unmet needs. And if at the end of the day you still won’t do it for yourself (or for me), do it for the ladies. Women love men who go to therapy.

13. Uphold your health.

It’s true; if you don’t have your health, you don’t have much of anything. Taking care of yourself and making the right choices isn’t easy and can be pretty boring, but it will give you a much better quality of life in the long-run. Find the meals and routines that work for you, and see your doctor at least once a year.

14. You’ll probably be dealing with acne AND wrinkles now.

Some problems from your youth just never go away. Now you have yet another concern to bring to your dermatologist (see them once a year, too).

15. Give yourself some credit.

Quit being so hard on yourself and getting in your own way. You’re often far more capable than you realize and too hard on yourself when you make mistakes. This self-doubt is something that is learned, which means you can also unlearn it once you understand where it comes from (see # 12). There is nothing inherently wrong with who you are.

16. Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s.

The older you get, the more it can feel like you’re falling behind. You see your friends achieve certain accomplishments and hit certain milestones and you can’t help but wonder when your time will come. While your time is never guaranteed, there’s certainly not one timeline for everyone. Don’t get down on yourself for arriving at your own pace. (If you succeed at this one, please tell me how.)

17. You are the one thing in life you can control.

You are inimitable. You are an original. Don’t throw away your shot, but also be willing to wait for it. (Sorry I’m not sorry for the 4-hour live concerts I’ve blessed you with on every road trip featuring the greatest hits American musical theater has to offer, including the Hamilton soundtrack on loop.)

18. It’s okay to still not know WTF you’re doing.

The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing. If you believe you’ve got it all figured out, either your pre-frontal cortex is not yet fully developed, or you’ve become so arrogant that you’re now dangerously susceptible to misinformation from the internet and Fox News. Most people are just doing their best with what they have at the moment. And once you know better, you can do better.

19. Don’t stand on the sidelines; get involved.

Don’t just vote; help register others and campaign for politicians you believe in. Don’t just get pissed off about gun violence and reproductive rights; donate to relevant organizations and show up to the protests. Volunteer in your community. Find causes you are passionate about and see how you can help. Ask your friends who are struggling what you can do to alleviate their burden. Take an active role in leaving this world better than you found it. Don’t just let life pass you by; take an active role in living it.

20. Toxic masculinity is a prison.

Do not be ashamed to be vulnerable or sensitive or express emotions beyond lust and rage. The men who cling to rigid gender standards are usually just too terrified to look inward and face the deep-seeded insecurities they harbor within themselves. They’d rather double-down on upholding the confines that have both benefitted and harmed them than acknowledge the shame they feel for never truly measuring up to this criteria of manliness. Please call other men out on this when you see it. If they don’t hear it from other cisgender straight men, nothing changes. Speak up.

21. Be flexible and open to the possibilities.

I know change and transitions are the ultimate trigger for your anxiety and indecisiveness is your calling-card. Blame your childhood trauma or blame your Taurus sun, but there are so many opportunities out there awaiting you if you are open to them. Even if things don’t work out exactly as you planned, there is still much to be gained from embracing new experiences.

22. Find the humor wherever you can.

Life is ridiculous. Sometimes you just have to laugh so you don’t cry. By all means, cry as much as you need. But find the laughter in there, too. To quote the late, great Princess Leia, “If my life wasn’t funny it would just be true and that is unacceptable.”

23. Take the damn picture!

You’ve always hated being photographed, but you’re going to want those memories several decades from now! You’re also going to realize that you don’t look as awkward as you imagined you did at the moment and you’ll wish you had just enjoyed yourself more instead of being so self-conscious. You don’t have to post them online, but get in those pictures.

24. People really like you, dude.

You have such a laid-back, gentle demeanor that draws people to you. You get along with everybody and have a sense of chill that could never be me. You have a great sense of humor and can really throw down after a drink or two. Don’t take this charisma for granted or assume it goes unnoticed. I’ve seen first-hand time and time again that it does not.

25. How people treat you says far more about them than it does about you.

There are always going to be people who judge you and dislike you and it has everything to do with them and nothing to do with you. People are fighting battles we know nothing about and carrying their own baggage into each interaction. This doesn’t excuse poor treatment or bad behavior, but we don’t have to take it personally.

26. It’s better to build your own table and choose who gets to sit around it than beg for a seat at someone else’s.

Who you surround yourself with says a lot about your character and tremendously affects your outlook on life. Nurture relationships with genuine, authentic people who bring out the best in you. Don’t worry about trying to impress others, though. As long as you are kind and strive to do the right thing, the right people will be there.

27. This too shall pass.

Everything in life, good and bad, is temporary. Remember this when you are struggling through hard times or need humbling in good times.

28. A man’s 30 is a woman’s 40.

You’ve got another 10 years before you really freak out.

29. Celebrate!

We both know well that getting older is a privilege denied to many. While it’s never easy to be reminded of our mortality or to be confronted with the weight of our existence, take the opportunity to remember all the people, places and things you love most on this earth and share your gratitude for another year spent with them.

30. I’m really glad you were born.

That’s it. No notes.

“Is this what dating in your thirties is like?”

This I asked my friends in the final months of my 29th year. I had seen several jokes online about how marrying in your thirties means you’ve statistically avoided your first divorce, but I never anticipated how many men out there were still married — and hiding it.

While doing some casual cyber-sleuthing, I learned the man with whom I was scheduled to have drinks the following week had married that summer. His social media confirmed he still very much was. I couldn’t believe this was happening for a second time in less than six months.

Earlier that year, I matched with someone on an app who was a member of a small Jewish community we both frequented. I didn’t recognize him initially because he lied about his name and age. A couple weeks later, he confessed. While his wife’s chronic illness took a great toll on their marriage, there were many other problems that led to its demise. He tried to leave several times only for her to become hysterical, most recently leading her to agree to an open marriage if he stayed. Or so he claimed.

I was mature enough to know all the fantastical ideas I once had about marrying my soulmate as we eternally longed only for each other were not consistent with human nature. I appreciated that people were complicated and interpersonal relationships between them even more so. Yet I was still shocked to have been made “the other woman.” I always assumed in the unlikely event it happened, I’d lambast the cheater with my characteristic righteous anger.

Instead, I extended all the empathy and kindness I would afford to someone who didn’t lie to get me into bed. I knew what he did was wrong, but who was I to judge? I couldn’t imagine what I’d do in his situation. Yet I also had to consider the events from his wife’s perspective, and I knew if I were in her shoes, I’d be devastated. Still, I went against my better judgment and convinced myself it was okay to see him again given the circumstances. I just made it clear; “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Yet after I realized the extent of my proximity to him and his wife, I admonished him for putting me in such a compromising position. He was sorry. He became emotional and I comforted him. I gave him advice he said he appreciated. I bore him no ill-will and wished him well. I truly believed he would do better and continue working on himself.

What I didn’t know was he continued to seek out other women after we cleared the air. While he and his wife ultimately separated (at which point we were intimate one final time), he began dating someone else and never had the courtesy to tell me. When I found out and told him what a fool he’d made of me, he admitted he met his current girlfriend while still married. His impending divorce wasn’t the result of him maturing and doing the right thing, it was just another thread in his web of lies. As much as he tried to psychoanalyze his behavior, there was no intellectualizing what he’d done.

“It’s not that complex!” I yelled over the phone. “You wanted something and you took it and tried to escape the consequences. You thought you could have your cake and eat it, too.”

While I initially felt too ashamed to tell most friends I had found myself involved with a married man, after things came to a head, I started sharing my experience more. It turns out I was far from alone. Multiple people from various social circles confided they had dated individuals whom they later learned were engaged or married the whole time. They all marveled how despite these tales being so abundant, they never thought they’d become the cliché.

Two friends revealed over drinks that they each were casually seeing a person who was being unfaithful to a spouse. They wondered aloud how in the wrong they were since technically they were not the ones cheating. Though I had once pondered the same question and proclaimed I did not want to hurt anyone, I understood I had enabled another to do so. I assured these friends they did not want to be complicit in someone else’s pain.

Yet if the significant other remained unaware of the offense, was it my responsibility as a complicit party — however unwittingly — to tell them? Most of the friends I spoke with thus far had not divulged any information to the offending party’s significant other, but that felt far too passive. Now after uncovering a second adulterer, the ethical dilemma I’d shirked the first time around was haunting me. I gave my would-be date the chance to confess, but he proceeded to play dumb and unmatch me.

Later that night, I messaged his wife on Instagram and sent her the screenshots of my conversation with her husband. I apologized profusely for the circumstances, but I insisted if I were in her place, I’d want to know the truth. She never responded.

I wondered for days if I had done the right thing or if my impulsivity and big mouth had gotten the better of me. Most of the friends I told were more impressed I had the nerve than they were concerned with its moral implications. Yet a few who shared they had done the same in similar predicaments assured me I had acted honorably.

This was ultimately the first of several infidelities I would go on to discover and reveal. I caught them all via basic background checks and standard internet search engines. Some suitors were oddly guarded when revealing personal information which roused suspicion. Others seemed so genuine and sincere that it made their deception even more disturbing. I don’t believe these pretenders are disproportionately drawn to me nor I to them; I’m simply better at finding them out. While these men ultimately encompass a small percentage of those I’ve dated in my lifetime, I believe as long as I remain single, odds are high it will happen again.

Every social media profile of these adulterer’s wives has been plastered with photos of their nuptials and proclamations of their marital devotion. One wife was pregnant. Another had two young children. It’s genuinely sickening to peer through that window knowing what I know — what the objects of their affection don’t want them to know. All the heartfelt comments from their friends and families have made me cringe and made me cry. I resent these men not only for involving me in tainting these memories, but for so recklessly casting aside the lives they’d taken so much time to build, so clearly documented through the years.

Perhaps there are rare circumstances where an affair is the smoothest course of action, yet none of the men I encountered fully considered the outcomes of that route before they took it. Most were only thinking with the head between their legs instead of the one between their shoulders. Only when I gave them the opportunity to confess to their partners first did they realize their carelessness and its inevitable ramifications. Most of them were intelligent and successful and likely used to controlling the narrative and getting their way. They flailed in the unfamiliar terrain of accountability and the depths of their compartmentalization astounded even themselves. They asked for my forgiveness, but I don’t believe most of them truly cared about receiving it. If anything, they were more concerned with curbing my fury to salvage their reputations. To them, I was but an unpleasant footnote in the timeline of their relationships, incidental and disposable.

Some may conclude that by reaching out in this manner, I’ve wrecked homes and torn families apart. I acknowledge I’m not being entirely selfless and perhaps administering my own form of vigilante justice to rectify my own anguish. But as I’ve told these men, it’s their actions and their blatant disregard for the repercussions that cause the harm, not my decision to convey the information. I understand why others may disagree, but I still have to live with myself and do what I feel is right. Silence in the face of wrongdoing benefits no one. When people are not held responsible for bad behavior, they will repeat it, as evidenced by my first foray into this dismal territory. If these husbands truly wish to atone, then owning their misdeeds is where they must begin.

As for their wives, all who responded were grateful I upended their ignorance, which they found less blissful and more humiliating. Not only had some of them received this news before, reaffirming my decision to speak up, but they saw their prior suspicions validated in the face of their husbands’ gaslighting. None of them lashed out or blamed me for their predicament. One asked that I not contact her further. One insisted we grab drinks when the dust settled. This gave me hope that women will no longer be pitted against each other as the gatekeepers of male sexuality.

I won’t advocate for monogamy being easy or even ideal, but I cannot excuse willful deception and betrayal. Consenting adults may opt for ethically non-monogamous relationships, but there is nothing ethical about what these men did to me or their families. Those in open marriages will confirm that dishonesty is still unacceptable and no one is exempt from having difficult conversations with their partner under the selfish delusion that secrets and lies are easier. I still hold space for empathy and kindness and recognize the humanity in everyone’s mistakes, but I no longer have patience for cowards who try to have it all at the expense of their loved ones or innocent bystanders who are none the wiser.

Despite the brutal reality I’ve witnessed, I still hope to get married and currently prefer to remain monogamous. I personally believe the benefits of long-term, exclusive relationships can be worth the inherent sacrifices. Hopefully not finding someone in my twenties spared me the trauma of those whose spouses could not honestly and respectfully draw similar or different conclusions.

Yet if I do marry, and you happen to learn my husband is being unfaithful, please tell me. I’d want to know.

However, at 32 and hopelessly single, that vision seems to be slipping further and further away. My secular friends have long cautioned that I’m limiting my dating pool by only pursuing my own kind. Yet my desire to marry in was not born of religious decree. The more I left the homogeneously Gentile suburb in which I grew up and connected with Jewish peers, the more a Jewish partner made sense. As much as I love having a diverse coalition of friends and learning all about different cultures and customs, there is a unique comfort found when your rituals or beliefs no longer require constant explanation. I determined as a teenager that I wanted a spouse who could have that visceral understanding and truly share in my traditions. Having lived the entirety of my adult life in Manhattan, Tel Aviv, and Los Angeles, demographics were never my concern.

Despite only pursuing serious relationships with nice Jewish boys, I’ve been open to casual connections with men of all countries and creeds for years. I’ve dated Christians, Muslims, Hindus, avowed atheists, and more. I’ve conquered various nations of Latin America, the East both Middle and Far, and most of Western Europe. I’ve never seen this as a distraction from my ultimate goal because holding out for the real deal had gotten me no closer to finding it. Of course, I’ve been risking something more meaningful arising from these flings. But other than a crush in college on a Gentile with very Jewish energy, these encounters never reached a level to warrant cause for concern. Until I met Pierre.

Pierre is not his real name, but he is French — a favorite of mine, and not just for the men. When we matched on an app last summer, he had gotten out of a bad relationship several months prior. Due to this and uncertainty around his work visa, he wasn’t seeking long-term commitments. I was just tired of the grind of seeking my soulmate and the respect and consideration Pierre gave me was a breath of fresh air. Having somewhere to turn for reliable companionship and intimacy without being tied down was initially great. I could still search for my ideal match, but my emotional and physical desires were fulfilled in the meantime.

Pierre and I weren’t perfectly compatible by any means. He is more extraverted and social, whereas I am more introverted and in my own head. He’s into the live concert and music festival scene; I prefer live comedy and musical theater. I think sea otters are precious and adorable; he thinks they’re inherently evil monsters. (Look them up!) Yet where it counts, we always connected. Healthy communication was important to us both and we could discuss anything from the political and socioeconomic woes of our native lands to painful memories and previous traumas. There was chemistry and passion, and we always had a great time together. Nearly all our values seemed to align, aside from one; religion.

Pierre grew up in a conservative Catholic family near Versailles, a notoriously traditional area of France. He was no longer religious, yet he recognized the importance of those traditions to his loved ones. While he was open to raising children in another faith, as he would want them to have a moral grounding in some ideology, converting was not something he would do to his grandmother. When he dated his Jewish ex, he felt pressure to convert from the beginning. I hated that the toxic environment he described with her was something he likely associated with Judaism. He once asked me why he seemed to attract so many Jewish women.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “Maybe because you’re smart and attractive and emotionally available and we’re into that. Or you just happen to live in a city with a lot of Jews.”

Things were sailing along smoothly until around the High Holidays. He expressed interest in dating more people and my feelings for him started to shift.

“I feel like if you were Jewish, we’d be at a different place right now,” I confessed.

If he was, I’d likely have been more honest with him and myself about how fond of him I’d grown. Had he still not been able to reciprocate, I probably would have acknowledged that I needed to walk away. Yet because he was not Jewish, and our arrangement was always meant to be temporary, I allowed the relationship to continue on in ambiguity.

Yet I would ask myself, if he were to want more, would there be room for compromise? Or would I be sacrificing something so important to me that I would later regret it and resent him?

My father was raised Methodist and was agnostic as an adult. This made it easy for my mother to raise me and my brother in her faith, but the marriage did cause tension with her Orthodox family. The same tension would reemerge should I marry a non-Jew, especially since I am close with many of my young cousins for whom such a union is unthinkable. While my mother would support me marrying whoever makes me happy, she has encouraged me from a young age to seek out a Jewish partner to make things easier for all.

I remember feeling uneasy about the absence of a Jewish patriarch leading our family during holidays and rituals when I was young. It wasn’t until years later, following that crush on a Gentile in college, that I properly came to terms with the interfaith roots of my Jewish identity. Matrilineal descent assures that my Judaism (and my children’s) will never be questioned, unlike many patrilineal Jews who feel bound to their fathers’ heritage or were raised in it, yet find themselves ostracized from the community at large.

While intermarriage is now very common, it is still considered the grim reaper for Jewish continuity among religious authorities. It has been likened to genocide as a “silent Holocaust” — a term I find abhorrent as a child of intermarriage and a human being. Though I recognize that intermarriage is a legitimate issue with which modern Jews must contend, too often it is dismissed as either wholly unacceptable or fairly inconsequential. I believe these conversations, and the many interfaith families currently navigating them, deserve the same nuanced approach and broad analyses that Judaism affords complicated questions.

My worldview is fairly agnostic these days. I have a healthy skepticism of religious dogma and I don’t believe any one theology holds all the answers or is superior to the rest. Yet I believe spirituality and the search for meaning are essential elements of the human experience. As Judaism was the faith by which my ancestors connected to the divine for generations, enduring millennia of persecution and overcoming all odds to do so, its observance is meaningful to me. I feel blessed to have been born into such an ancient and formidable people whose values and teachings have forever shaped humanity. And being born in is significant, as Judaism’s tribal nature often renders it inaccessible to outsiders or those who don’t truly wish to learn. Notwithstanding my love of diversity and multiculturalism, it makes sense that I’d prefer a partner who can play an equal role in keeping my people’s traditions alive and handing them down. Yet this was not stopping me from falling for a Goy.

I could no longer dismiss Pierre as a potential partner because he was not Jewish, yet I worried that no longer holding out for an optimal Jewish husband would be a mistake. Perhaps had I been younger, I wouldn’t have worried so much either way, but I could hear my biological clock ticking. As a man two years younger than me, Pierre felt no such pressure. I suppose he believed that considering a future with me would amount to settling for us both. Yet would I really be settling by choosing someone who is a match for me in every way that matters, except for one?

Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on your view — I never had to answer these questions. The last night I spent with Pierre was the first night of Hanukkah. I was unable to light my menorah at his place and I took it as a sign. Pierre had started to develop feelings for another woman he met before me with whom he always felt there was potential for more. When his bond with her grew, I could no longer deny his affection for me just did not hold up. Although it hurt to let him go, I knew it was likely for the best. We are still on good terms and I’m grateful to have met and shared that time with such a wonderful person, even if he isn’t my person.

Still, I ask myself what I’ll do should I again find myself in a similar situation. I have decided to set greater boundaries around casual relationships and focus more energy on potential Jewish mates, yet I do fear my time is running too short to be so discerning. If another Gentile were to come along who is just as good and kind, who is interested in a future with me, would I give him a chance? Or would I end things before they could start because he is not a Jew?

I still don’t have the answers. Ask me again in a few years if I haven’t found a Jewish husband by then.

This suggestion was the last straw over the course of a few conversations with a potential suitor whose flirtatious teasing had long ago started to sound more like the condescension of an overconfident white male. I was explaining to him that there were currently no practical ways to get from my location to his as I did not have a car while visiting my hometown and there were no convenient routes of public transportation, especially when I was still working 40+ hours a week. His solution to compromise a good night’s sleep with drug use may have been facetious, but it was not insincere.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asked. I paused.

“No,” I answered firmly. This is the truth, but not the whole picture. The thought of elaborating to this person was giving me anxiety, though.

He went on to make hyperbolic assertions about the amount of people using Adderall among certain demographics. I tried to reason with him that attending a private school in an upper-middle class neighborhood would make these medications more prevalent among the student body, not to mention at colleges and universities over the past few decades. Working in the entertainment industry and as an attorney, where the pressures and demands of the jobs are high, also may lead individuals to seek out performance enhancing supplements, both legal and not. Yet with the unearned expertise that blanketed all his statements, he declared taking Adderall to be a normal tool for success and offered to let me borrow some of his.

“No, I’m good,” I said curtly, and the conversation deteriorated. I thought about asking if that Adderall was even prescribed to him, but it didn’t matter. In this day and age, whether or not someone has a prescription for this classification of drugs is not an indication of whether or not they should be taking them. I decided to push back on the way this man was speaking to me rather than the nature of his statements, because he had already said many other problematic things. Yet his take on this particular topic still had me enraged weeks later.

The panic surrounding over-medicating our youth for symptoms of Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, or ADHD, was something I was well aware of long before I realized I may be affected by this disorder myself. When a friend and a cousin of mine with similar struggles in school and in life were both diagnosed when we were in high school, I was both surprised and annoyed. Surely this must be another case of the over-diagnosis that everything from Law & Order to South Park had warned us about. Yet when I started looking into it, I realized some alarming consistencies with the symptoms and my own personal habits and behavior patterns. While I was never the poster child for the condition, especially since I was female, there did seem to be something there. The more I poked around my family’s history, the more symptoms and diagnoses were revealed on both sides. By the end of that summer, when I failed time and time again to even begin work on a major assignment for an upcoming AP course, I was convinced that ADHD was at the root of my problems.

Of course, it was never going to be that simple. I had underlying anxiety and depression and those symptoms were intertwined so deeply with the symptoms of ADHD that it was impossible to see them individually. These three disorders are often co-morbid because their symptoms easily feed into and drive one another. Divorcing these symptoms from my personality entirely also seemed an impossible task, especially at an age when trying to discover and define one’s identity is essential. Where do you draw the line between what is classified as a “disorder” and what is just part and parcel of who you are? How do you excise that disorder from your psyche without becoming another person entirely? On top of that, I had a thyroid problem that would go improperly treated for several years, so surely that was a contributing factor to my overall malaise and lack of motivation. I never even touched recreational drugs in high school, but I’m positive several teachers came to believe I was a burnout. And what if, at the end of the day, my convictions were just the delusions of a lazy teenage girl playing doctor on the internet, looking for an acceptable excuse for why she didn’t want to do her homework? I feared many of the friends I confided in believed this was the case. A part of me still fears this has always been the case.

Yet I was not doing my homework and the consequences were catching up to me. I had been able to get away with not paying attention and doing the bare minimum for many years because I was “smart” and did not have to put in the same effort that other students did for good grades. I remember being in first grade and constantly writing my own stories in notepads during lessons and circle time. My teacher encouraged this not only because she didn’t have to worry that I would fall behind if I wasn’t completely engaged, but who would ever consider a child reading and writing several grade levels above her classmates to have a problem? (I am grateful child development experts caught on to the pitfalls of raising children with too much emphasis on intelligence and self-esteem and not enough on hard work and learning from their mistakes.) As I grew and some existential weariness kicked in, I began to slack off. My mother and teachers would decry this as a shame as I had “so much potential” — something I’m confident many ADHDers have heard over and over again throughout their lives as they failed to live up to it. Yet getting at the root of my failure to launch didn’t seem as important to the authority figures in my life at the time. There were many other children with far greater problems. I was smart, which must have meant I was capable; I just needed to start “applying” myself. In high school, when the material finally began to challenge me and the workload increased, I was unable to keep up. My usual routine of throwing everything together last minute and still succeeding was no longer enough, and I seemed incapable of adjusting to a more disciplined routine or exerting self-control. One semester into my junior year, I was ineligible for extra-curricular activities for the second time, further alienating me from my friends and fueling my sense of hopelessness.

However, I refused to be one of those kids who is given a medication they don’t need. I insisted on receiving a proper diagnosis from a trained mental health professional. I wanted to do what I believed was the “right” thing. I was given a full evaluation by a psychologist and his panel of student researchers. My mother, my teachers, and I all filled out extensive evaluations and my full medical and academic histories were analyzed. I completed an in-depth interview and a series of tests with one of the researchers. Yet they determined the symptoms had revealed themselves too recently to warrant a diagnosis and my depression seemed to be far more prevalent and therefore the more likely culprit. The irony is that their conclusions only made my depression exponentially worse.

I finally acquiesced to my mother’s insistence that I go see the pediatrician who had helped my cousin and just obtain a prescription. In my mother’s medical professional mind, the difficulties I was experiencing should not be viewed any differently than any other physiological abnormality that could be treated with medication. It always felt more complex to me than that, but we were clearly at the point where only medication was going to save me. I was still insisting the depression had been caused by the ADHD symptoms, so if I was treated for ADHD, the depression would soon dissipate. Obviously I was wrong and a year and a half would pass before I finally acknowledged I needed to start taking anti-depressants as well. Yet for my final years of high school, at least as far as focus and performance were concerned, the ADHD medication helped.

A common mistake made by many young adults who have taken amphetamine/dextroamphetamine (Adderall) or methylphenidate (Ritalin) is that if they work for you, you too must have ADHD. This is simply untrue. The way these medications lock norepinephrine and dopamine hormones into a pattern of constant reuptake will make even the most diligent workers and learners feel more focused. Experts believe it is some type of disfunction or dysregulation within this catecholamine system that leads to ADHD in the first place, although causation is likely far more complex. The stimulants commonly used to treat it will give anyone an extra boost, but those with ADHD theoretically never had those hormones adequately circulating in the first place. Yet even using these prescriptions as directed to serve their intended purpose is not without side effects. While the initial boost of energy and optimism in the first few hours is great, the stimulants are quickly metabolized, often leading to crashes that can significantly exacerbate any co-morbid anxiety and depression. Concerta, a long-acting form of methylphenidate and the first prescription I was given, made me feel like I was crawling out of my skin with anger and irritability at the end of each day when it was leaving my body. Yet it still had the intended effect I needed, so I told myself it was worth it to endure a couple hours of hell each weekday in order to get stuff done.

The medications famously reduce one’s appetite and I’ve seen it purposefully used for weight loss. One man told me he believed it to be hindering his sexual performance. Even with the negative side effects, they still don’t work miracles for those with ADHD. Although they help us focus, our whimsical nature will often direct our undivided attention to the wrong things. I frequently complete elaborate projects I’ve been putting off which, while visibly productive, is not related to the job I am paid to do that should be taking priority. Most notable for me is that the medication can make us feel like people we are not. It often squelches all the creative impulses that are so essential to our personalities. I still remember the day I came home from school after taking that first pill, prepared to bounce about the empty house as usual while finally letting my thoughts freely flow after 6 hours of confinement. Yet instead of feeling the urge to move around uninhibited, I felt nothing. I just calmly sat down on the couch, feeling empty but completely alert.

“Okay… I guess I’ll just do my homework, then” I reluctantly concluded.

I’ve noticed it’s those who arguably need the medications the most who seem to actively dislike taking them, especially children. Kids who have grown up on them can have an identity crisis in their adulthood when they stop and realize they don’t know who they really are. Yet in a society where human capital value is emphasized above all else, putting pressure on our youth since birth, children who don’t fit the mold are at a major disadvantage. I’ve had several young cousins pulled from their private Jewish schools where their parents would have preferred to see them study and placed into secular schools that are more equipped to handle their needs because these smaller, more traditional institutions were just unable (or unwilling) to accommodate any alternative learning environments.

I had one cousin who discovered that her son, a more “classic case” of ADHD, wasn’t going to class in the afternoon because one of the rabbis told him not to come back after lunch. When they realized he had been sitting for weeks watching YouTube videos with the security guard (who became his best friend) and his parents demanded his tuition be prorated for as many hours as he had missed, someone was brought in to teach him and a smaller group of boys. This teacher would go on to tell the boys’ parents that he had expected his new students to have significant learning disabilities when the position was described to him, but he was pleasantly surprised to see just how intelligent they were. But anyone who spends just a few moments with my cousin can see how bright he is, he just doesn’t do well in classrooms where one teacher is tasked with dividing their attention among 20 to 30 kids. Of course he would rather entertain the masses than sit still!

Even in more affluent schools, this country consistently misses the mark on education. Parents must fight tooth and nail to get their children the appropriate services or Individualized Education Programs (IEPs) and resources are often limited. The teachers who bend over backwards trying to do best by their students are underpaid and under-appreciated. This combined with a world where we are all constantly overstimulated, endlessly distracted, we practically set up some kids for failure. America diagnoses more children with ADHD annually than any other nation and most of these children are medicated. Our for-profit healthcare system that allows direct-to-consumer ads for controlled substances, and which navigating is often a matter of privilege, is no help. Adults are now the majority of the population taking prescription stimulants. As we are in the midst of an opioid addiction epidemic, it’s worth noting that Adderall is just as close to meth as opiates are to heroin. Most people don’t become addicted to these substances, but because there are so many individuals taking them, many ultimately do. Doctors once at the forefront for treating children with these drugs have now expressed regret and reversed course.

To be clear, I am by no means suggesting taking these medications is some sort of moral failing or that they do not improve quality of life for those who are struggling. Many ADHD advocates fear the mass hysteria surrounding these pills will only hurt those with ADHD who are already suffering and now must deal with further stigma. I also completely empathize with parents who are at their wit’s end and make the decision to medicate their child because they’ve exhausted all other options. Yet there is no blood test for ADHD. There are no antibodies or enzymes that can be detected. While there are measurable differences in the pre-frontal cortex of the brains of those with ADHD compared to the general population, individual CT scans cannot render a definitive conclusion. The diagnostic criteria we have in the DSM-V is reliant on observations and evaluations of mental health professionals, yet there are continuous shades of grey that make the decision to treat just as subjective. Even in individuals for whom medication is effective, it is not enough. It is not unreasonable to imagine that those exhibiting ADHD symptoms to any degree could benefit from a more nuanced approach.

In all four years of college and for many years after, I never told a soul I had prescriptions for Concerta and Ritalin that I could take as needed. I did not want to find myself in the position where I became a drug dealer for my friends and peers (and I was pretty broke so if word got out and an offer came my way, I could very well have been tempted). Even when friends would remark how strange it was that I had gone an entire day without eating or that I seemed unusually bothered by external stimuli, I ultimately decided against telling them the reason why. I suppose I didn’t want to deal with anyone’s judgements, either. A part of me still had hang-ups about whether or not I truly needed this medication and I didn’t want to be tasked with defending that to others or placating their puzzled expressions.

“You don’t seem like someone who has ADHD,” was a familiar response from the past that I no longer had the energy to deconstruct.

As each semester passed, I took the medication less and less. I had finally asked my doctor to prescribe me an alternative to Concerta because the withdrawal period had become too much. I refused Adderall since I knew it had the potential to become habit-forming and I settled for Ritalin XR. The withdrawal period was much more bearable, but I still wanted to feel like myself most of the time. I started reserving the medication for pulling last minute all-nighters to complete essays I had once again put off till the last minute. I know my GPA suffered for this. I hated being the person who always had to make excuses for why an assignment was late and how it affected my relationships with my professors. The lack of output often confused the ones whose classes I genuinely enjoyed because they couldn’t quite reconcile it with the girl who seemed so eager to learn and participate in person. Many of them would ask me if I was okay or if something was wrong. I’d always say I was fine or make some vague reference to just being distracted with personal matters. I believed the only thing that was really “wrong” was how my brain was wired, but the cost of fixing it seemed too high a price.

For the remainder of my twenties, the medication remained mostly untouched. This sometimes affected my performance at work, but half my efforts could usually yield stronger results than those giving their all and I could often coast on the low expectations set by others. I had mostly been working jobs for which I was overqualified because I had trouble securely landing a position in my field. I would get really down on myself for this as I’d see others I’d went to college or interned with really starting to succeed. I knew I shouldn’t compare anyone else’s journey with my own, but I grew more and more frustrated as my potential went endlessly wasted, as everyone always feared it would. My inability to put all my dreams and machinations into action had been a recurring theme in my life that was only getting worse with adulthood and its subsequent responsibilities. When I moved and landed a job that actually was a great opportunity, I realized I could no longer do the bare minimum to get by. Not only was I was now tasked with doing the work of several people in this role, I also needed to build clout and a good reputation. I put the bottle of Ritalin into my purse.

Nevertheless, this time I understood that medication alone was not the solution. Now that I had a job with a decent insurance plan, I returned to therapy (for several reasons, but this was one of them). I told my psychiatrist my history and how I was unsure I actually “have” ADHD, but these traits were having a negative impact on my quality of life and I needed to address them. She remarked that I had managed to get by quite well in the last decade given the circumstances, but I emphasized that this is all I was doing — getting by. I was surviving, but I was not thriving. I had made concerted efforts to improve some bad habits, such as perpetually being late or avoidant behavior, but I was going to need some professional assistance shifting my frame of mind. I knew there were longstanding behavior patterns my brain had built over time that I needed to recognize and relearn.

A common description of those with ADHD is that they are addicted to the present. This can mean impulsivity and thrill-seeking for some, but more broadly, it means we are unable to orient our actions and behaviors around long-term goals. We have executive function deficits that make getting started and time management more difficult. Sure, we have big ideas and innovations, but when it comes to realizing them, we consistently fall short. Procrastination is our calling card not because we are “lazy” — when we’re excited about something in the moment we can hyperfocus like nobody’s business — but the thought of actually sitting and focusing on something that is not currently captivating our attention for an extended period of time is just so excruciating that we avoid those negative feelings by putting off those tasks entirely. While these mundane chores are boring for everyone, they are still essential to properly function in the modern world. So as much as ADHD medication can have negative effects, the consequences of not treating ADHD can be far greater. Complications can range from low self-worth to higher health risk behaviors. Research shows that those with ADHD are likelier to experience a variety of woes, from divorce to premature death.

While certain risk factors like exposure to alcohol or toxins in utero and brain injuries do seem to increase the odds of an ADHD diagnosis, this was certainly not the case with me. My mother had a very healthy pregnancy and what is happening in my mind aside, my brain has remained unharmed. As evidenced by both my mother and father’s families, the most common correlation appears to be genetic. Though I suppose we could blame it on a defective gene pool, I slightly resent the notion that something is inherently “wrong” with 5–8% of the global population. Much like the paradigm shift regarding those on the autism spectrum, I think it’s important we do not portray individuals with ADHD as somehow defective just because they are not neurotypical. I understand the validity of labeling mental and neurological anomalies in order for us to better comprehend and treat them, yet “disorder” sounds a bit harsh for what is effectively just a difference in cognition. It’s long been noted that this sensitivity to environmental idiosyncrasies was likely of enormous benefit to our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Although this can be a weakness in contemporary society, people with ADHD have so many strengths, even beyond their creativity and imagination. They are often strong problem solvers, bringing ingenuity and unique perspectives to various dilemmas. They typically exhibit higher levels of empathy and have a strong sense of justice and fairness. The truth is that I love my ADHD brain, I just wish I could control it more than it controls me. And I wish I lived in a society that sees it not as just a detriment that needs fixing, but also a potential asset when paired with the right guidance.

Our society needs people who think differently and do not fit the mold to innovate and propel civilization forward. Even the most promising, brilliant children can have their originality stifled if they learn they must conform to every codified rule to succeed. Unsurprisingly, it is not the inventive and highly creative students who are typically the teacher’s pets. Looking back, I realize I never felt like I was one of the smart kids in elementary school because the children who appeared to fit that description seemed to fall in line more willingly, where as I always had a mild rebellious streak. My cousin may have been a handful for the teacher that kicked him out of class, and for every caregiver he’s had over the years — myself included, but there is never a dull moment with him. He finds joy and adventure all around him and is always making everyone laugh. Even though he is often ruled by his emotions, it’s feeling things so deeply that makes him so considerate of others. I would be giving myself too much credit to say I see myself in him, but then I’m not quite as far down the ADHD spectrum.

I am not a psychologist or medical doctor of any kind, but it does seem we are arriving at the point where we no longer view ADHD so myopically. I hope that children and adults who are experiencing multiple symptoms that significantly and chronically impair multiple aspects of their lives are not turned away because the signs don’t seem severe enough, nor are they are given a prescription stimulant and told to be on their way. The symptoms will present differently among different individuals, but if people are struggling to any degree, they deserve adequate help. Adequate help should not mean completely suppressing a person’s identity to mollify everyone around them. What works for some might not be as beneficial for others, but I’m happy to see that modern psychology seems to have a broader perspective than what I encountered as a teenager. Now everything from behavioral therapy to mindfulness training for the whole family seems to be on the table. Researchers are now studying the effectiveness of prescription treatment beyond traditional stimulants, including but not limited to LSD and video games.

Perhaps more exciting is that, along with everything else mental health, we are finally starting to have real public conversations about ADHD. All over social media, influencers and content creators are sharing their stories and managing accounts to spread the word and connect with others who have been diagnosed or believe they might be affected. While these accounts are no substitute for therapy, they can help identify possible symptoms for those outside of the typical white male demographic where cases often go underdiagnosed. That’s not to say there won’t be teens who are labeling themselves with ADHD without speaking to medical professionals or there won’t be some who grow exasperated at the potential for every single one of their classmates to self- diagnose. Even today when I hear someone who doesn’t seem to have struggled like I did claim to have ADHD, I’m compelled to probe further and wonder if it’s just the result an overzealous psychiatrist hastily prescribing Adderall. Yet I know as someone who has often silently languished, I should give the same leeway to everyone else who is trying to figure out their brains and identify proper courses of treatment where necessary.

But when I hear someone mansplain to me the virtues of prescription drug abuse meant to treat something by which I have personally been affected, it’s going to anger me. Egotistical opportunists like the man I thankfully never met in person only trivialize the realities of ADHD for the general population, and if I had the chance to re-do that phone call, I’d tell him so.

At the beginning of this year, I returned to taking a prescription stimulant on a semi-regular basis. I take 2.5mg of Focalin, described by my psychiatrist as a “gentler” version of Ritalin, as needed — usually once in the morning on workdays. I still get a mild sense of euphoria for about an hour or so once it kicks in and I still feel a little irritated when it is winding down, but it is bearable. The medication is not as strong as others I’ve taken, but I prefer it that way. I get a little assistance, but I still feel like myself and I am not overwhelmed by side effects. I still have therapy with my psychiatrist once a week where switching the dosage or the medication is always on the table. (Many people have therapists they see for therapy and psychiatrists or family doctors they see for prescriptions, but I strategically chose to leave out a middleman because I wanted consistency across the board.) I can address other self-sabotaging behavior patterns and all my other compounding neuroses with her in the meantime. She also recommended a book for succeeding with ADHD, although she did recognize the irony of asking someone with ADHD to finish reading a book.

This is what’s working for me now, but that might change down the line. Focusing and completing tasks are still not easy for me, but it no longer feels entirely hopeless. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to realize all my big dreams and ideas, but I have realized that falling short of society’s grand expectations of fame and fortune does not make me a total failure and daydreaming is not a waste of my time just because I don’t capitalize on it. Sometimes the creative energy I have is so overwhelming that I avoid doing anything with it in order to avoid disappointing myself when I fall short. Yet having that level of creative energy in the first place is not something I should lament, regardless of if and how I choose to channel it. There will always be a balancing act I’ll have to keep up between allowing my brain to do its thing without restraint and leading a healthy, well-rounded existence where I don’t get in my own way. Yet I don’t let ADHD define the entirety of my personality or my day to day being. In fact, this is the most I’ve ever addressed it in any forum outside of therapy. But regardless of where I fall on the spectrum and to what degree ADHD affects my life, I now recognize that I can be successful and still be myself.

I have always been independent. In fact, it’s one of my defining characteristics, almost to a fault. I’m sure this comes from a combination of my innate stubbornness and moderate anti-social tendencies, as well as a lifetime of lessons that have taught me to be first and foremost self-reliant. The internet has enabled my reluctance to ask for help and allowed me to freely plan everything from getting a haircut to visiting a foreign nation, all without speaking to a single soul. I am not averse to human interaction, but compared to the average person, I need more time alone.

Nevertheless, I’ve always wanted to get married. Make no mistake, I was not raised to rely on a man to provide for me. Yet my parents would speak of my future wedding when I was a kid as if it were a given. I‘m sure I’ve been “programmed” to some degree by my family’s traditional Jewish values and the wedding industrial complex I’ve leaned into since I was a tween. I am definitely THAT girl who mentally files away ideas for her own nuptials with every Pinterest board she comes across and every episode of “Say Yes to the Dress” she watches, even if they’re still as imaginary as when she was wearing a pillowcase on her head. For all the autonomy women have gained and all the ways marriage is being redefined in the 21st century, I believe the fact that so many couples are still choosing to wed says a great deal about the human concept of matrimony and proves it is far more than a business or government transaction. While I don’t believe marriage should be expected of anyone and everyone, and certainly shouldn’t be entered into lightly or impractically, I still feel it is something to be celebrated and something I want for myself.

More pressing than my desire for marriage is my desire for motherhood. Starting when I was still a child myself, being around babies and toddlers brought me immense joy and I took easily to nurturing them. I was lucky to have grown up surrounded by little ones, whether at the home of my after-school babysitter who taught me so much about childcare, or with the multitude of offspring my first cousins would eventually produce. I’ve worked in summer camps, daycares, Hebrew and pre-schools, and I haven’t stopped babysitting since age 11. Even among friends and peers, I am usually the (Jewish) Mom of the group. I completely respect women who insist they have no maternal instinct and no urge to procreate. In fact, environmental science would tell us we need more of these ladies because our resources are depleting and the less they have, the less guilty I feel about wanting to birth a whole litter. Yet I cannot relate to these women because that has never been me. I am aware that it is likely a deep, biological drive inside me that is more responsible for these longings than any logical, rational thought process and I do not care. I was born a mother; I just have yet to reproduce.

I never wanted to be a woman whose only purpose was as a caregiver for her husband and children. I am glad I was raised with a strong sense of self and encouraged to achieve things for my own sake. I was always taught to consider myself a whole being who didn’t need anyone else to be complete. I assure you, I take full advantage of the perks and freedoms that come with being single and childless. Yet there’s nothing I’ve wanted more in life than to be a wife and mother. Even as my aspirations around education and work evolved and grew, getting married and having kids remained at the forefront. Those seem like very mundane, attainable goals. Yet somehow, in 30 years, I haven’t once come close.

I know there are things I could have done differently when I was younger. In retrospect, I have no qualms about not dating in high school. I knew there were men of higher quality awaiting me beyond those walls, and they likely weren’t getting laid in high school, either. Maybe I could have tried to meet more guys in college, where there were objectively more educated, eligible Jewish men. A significant percentage of them were not straight, but it was still a big school. I could have put myself out there more in my 20s instead of hiding behind self-imposed pre-requisites of personal improvement. I’ve often let insecurities about my body or my social anxieties hold me back, and I’m not a big drinker so not much liquid courage is utilized. (I’m the Mom of the group, remember?) I should go to more networking events for “young professionals,” yet the sheer volume of strangers often overwhelms me. When these parties are geared toward singles, it feels more like mating season at the zoo than it does a good time. I resisted online dating long after it became the primary means for my generation to mingle, and I only became an active user when I moved to a new city 2 years ago and my resources for meeting new people were further limited. I’ve met more guys than most will in a lifetime via these apps, but I am no closer to tying the knot.

Still, I have friends who were aggressive daters long before I really got in the game that remain single, so it isn’t as if I’ve missed my window of opportunity. For all my friends that have coupled up over the years, none of them seemed to have a particular method or magic formula for meeting their long-term partners. They just happened to find the right person at the right time, whether it was through college, through work, through mutual friends or through Tinder. “It always happens when you’re least expecting it,” right? I assumed it would eventually be the same for me. Certainly the fates had to align and through some means I would find a compatible, nice Jewish boy.

Recently, another single friend insisted I join her at a Shabbat/matchmaking dinner. The young woman who runs the events on the side interviewed me and asked for my top 3 “deal-breakers.” Rather bluntly, I explained they are: Douchebags (I have a tendency to be attracted to men who are so successful and good-looking that they’re actually the worst); men-children (adulting is hard but I don’t find total helplessness endearing, I need a grown-ass man); and Republicans. I really don’t think I’m asking for too much! She informed me she didn’t ask participants about their political inclinations, which to me is a non-starter. I don’t believe a philosophical difference of opinion should be a barrier to friendship or civility, but it plays a role in who many people date! Not surprisingly, she didn’t have a match for me at that time. While Orthodox Judaism has a whole machine devoted to pairing up young people across the globe, a matchmaker is only as good as the clients on her roster. In less religious circles, this roster is predominantly women, and there is still a stigma attached for both sexes. No one wants to go on record that they are so undateable they must pay a broker to find them a mate, let alone date only from a pool of other undateable people.

Some secular detractors will insist I am keeping my lens too narrow by marrying in, yet I know this to be untrue. There are plenty of eligible Jewish men in New York and Los Angeles for me to date and/or marry, as evidenced by spending just a few minutes on JSwipe in these locations. Unfortunately for me, most of the men who peak my interest enough to earn a swipe right are uninterested in me, as evidenced by my low number of matches. Even most of those matches are not exactly keen to interact. This in turn makes me feel terribly insecure, for as much as I love living in cities full of beautiful Jewesses, I am led to deduce that I must be the ugliest among them.

Granted, I am also swiping left on the majority of profiles, especially on that particular app where I am more discerning. Then I feel terribly guilty and superficial when faced with profiles of objectively good guys who would be a good match on paper but to whom I’m just not attracted. I then entertain lowering my standards, but ultimately feel ashamed for potentially leading someone on when I know there’s nothing there. I’m sure there are many out there who have happily settled and have objectively successful marriages. I’m also sure those people have far more agreeable personalities than mine. And frankly, I’ve seen far too many amazing women fall for decidedly garbage men. You can say that my standards are high, but please keep in mind just how low the bar currently is.

This past summer, I matched with a guy who intrigued me at first sight. I even stooped low enough to double-text him when I didn’t get a reply after a few days... God forbid we show too much interest in someone or be the one who’s doing the chasing, lest we seem needy or fail to lure the man into pursuing us by feigning apathy, amiright ladies? We proceeded to FaceTime and it went really well. After I worked my magic on Google, I estimated he was such a perfect fit for me that it must be too good to be true. It was.

He backed out on meeting with me in person and told me a couple weeks later there was someone else he was messaging whom he deemed more compatible, mostly on the grounds that he was changing careers out of my line of work and it would be too “emotionally problematic” for him to be around me. Most of my friends thought this was bullshit. I gave him some slack there, perhaps as a defense mechanism, but I still came back to him months later to ascertain if he was just wasn’t really into me in the first place. I’m of the belief that if something is important to you, you’ll find a reason. If not, you’ll find an excuse. If he really liked me, it wouldn’t matter what the circumstances were or what changes he was facing. While he insisted he found me attractive and enjoyed talking to me, he still doubled-down on excuses for why he wouldn’t give us a chance.

I knew this one would hurt more than most heartaches I’d endured in the last few years, but I still hoped I could cry in the shower for a few days, distract myself with a few flings, and be ready to move on. Instead, I found myself breaking down multiple times a day throughout the remainder of the summer. We had one lousy virtual date but every time I’d think about him, I’d lose it. What was wrong with me? Why was I so emotionally invested in this person whose feelings were so far apart from mine? Why couldn’t I let him go?

While it had been awhile since I’d been in such a predicament, the feeling was familiar. All my life, the boys I’ve felt strongest about and had the hardest time getting over were the ones I never dated. There’s only a small handful of men whom I’ve genuinely wanted, but none of them ever wanted me in return. This was probably good character building when I was a teenager, when my vocal teacher so aptly noticed all the songs I would sing were of unrequited love. Yet as I matured and became more confident in myself, I no longer wanted to be the shy, awkward girl longing for the guy who doesn’t know what he’s missing, like some 80s teen romance or a Taylor Swift music video. I wanted to be fierce and fully own all of my worth and all of which I am worthy. I tried to abide by the notion that anyone who could not appreciate all I have to offer was not worth my time. But this attitude is hard to maintain when you don’t pass a single day without thinking of someone who hasn’t given you a second thought. To know that you failed to inspire those warm, wonderful feelings in another that they made burn so deeply in you can make anyone feel embarrassingly small and irrelevant. How pathetic and weak must I be to want so badly what doesn’t want me? Maybe I’m just not as strong or independent as I’d like to believe.

I used to think I was weird for feeling so attached to these men I barely knew, yet I discovered I am not alone in this experience. It can be much harder to let go of the potential for something than it is of what you’ve seen first hand won’t work. Maybe this is one of the reasons I’ve gone so long without entering a long-term relationship. With the men I have dated, I’ve determined fairly quickly there was no future. Not that most of them ever thought otherwise, of course. But if your idea of someone is not given the opportunity to meet reality, you can get stuck ruminating on all the “what-ifs” and keep hoping that circumstances will change and the timing will be better and your paths will cross again. (I’m doing this even now even as I write.) While bad timing does happen, it’s usually not the real culprit. If these men really wanted to be with me, they would be. Had I been in relationships with them and red flags or friction had revealed themselves naturally, maybe letting go might be easier. Maybe not, but I’d at least like to have been given the opportunity to learn for myself.

I realized that the grief I was feeling this time around was not just the result of losing this one individual, but about all he represented. Not only had he reignited all my girlhood hang-ups around rejection and inadequacy, but he had crushed the most hope I had in several years of finally getting what I really want. Turning 30 while single and childless was clearly much harder on me than I wanted to admit and trying to bury these emotions underneath my pride was catching up to me. While this potential suitor was the same age as me chronologically, I was years ahead of him emotionally and biologically. He didn’t have to be concerned with “settling down” the same way I did and I was triggered by that.

I wanted to turn to my loved ones to express these frustrations. Yet I often found myself inhibited and holding back how I felt for fear of sounding pitiful and desperate, or having my grief brushed off as not that serious. With the few whom I was able to open up, while all of them meant well and were certainly trying to help, their advice did little to make me feel better. In fact, the harder they tried to alleviate my sadness, the worse I seemed to feel. Why?

Commiserating over singlehood is more comforting when you’re in college or in your 20s because most of your friends are in the same boat or have been there more recently. When it continues on into your 30s, you run the risk of becoming a sad stereotype. Like Bridget Jones or a Cathy cartoon, you’re suddenly a desperate spinster, deeply flawed with only the men who are already divorced or scared of commitment left to choose from. While I used to joke that I surely would become this caricature, I still hoped I’d soon be eating my words, like so many of my friends who’d join me in this form of self-deprecation ultimately did. Yet as this quip creeps ever closer to becoming my reality, it has lost its charm. Although I aspired to be Liz Lemon, I don’t want to be painted with such a one-dimensional brush.

Speaking of Liz Lemon, at least she had a career to show for her solitude. I am also lacking significantly in this department compared to my hopes and dreams, so I’m left feeling twice as inadequate. We often see depictions in mainstream media of women choosing one and forsaking the other. Rarely do we witness the steady pursuit or possession of both, even though this is the case for most women I know. I remember a quote from Lady Gaga really making the rounds 10 years ago where she assured women torn between following men and following their dreams to “remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn’t love you anymore.” While this is a powerful sentiment, it’s also misleading. Your company can lay you off at the drop of a hat. Your job can move overseas. You can lose your life savings overnight. Of course everyone must make sacrifices and prioritize, but having a career and having a partner need not negate one another. While women should never just throw away their dreams for someone else, I think wanting a family is a perfectly legitimate pursuit. (I don’t hold it against you though, Gaga. You were young and naïve, too.)

Although I am at an age where many of my peers are pairing up, I still have several female friends who remain single. Granted, many of them are single by choice and can happily own it, whereas I cannot. Some also have little desire to be mothers, so they don’t seem to hear the pounding of their biological clocks as loudly as I do. For my single friends who do share my hopes of having a family, of course we commiserate about how rough dating is and how obnoxious men can be. However, I suspect several are just as reluctant to share their deeper disappointments for fear of being perceived as bitter or lacking perspective. Never mind that some of them are the most formidable women I know.

There is inherent sexism built into this paradigm of labeling women who are looking for the real deal and simply experiencing human emotions in response to that as “clingy” and “crazy”. Even in this hook-up culture, where I regularly run into men with whom I expect no commitments and want no future, I still refuse to be disrespected. Yes, I happen to be a hormonal, melodramatic pain-in the ass on occasion, just as they happen to be oblivious, selfish pricks. Demanding to be treated decently and preferably not ghosted does not make women unstable. That’s not to say that men don’t also suffer the horrors of dating and trying to find a suitable match. Yet they’re not confined to the same societal or biological constraints as women. If they choose to live a bachelor life well into their 30s, this is reasonable. When they find themselves ready to settle down, even well into or past their 40s, well isn’t that so sweet? Men my age could continue to date for another decade and marry someone who is younger than I am now and both could be just arriving to the same mental space I currently inhabit.

Meanwhile, the strongest, most independent single women will often keep quiet about feeling lonely. Not only must we worry about scaring off potential dates, but also about validating misogynistic tropes, often internalized by other women who insist our lives are indeed empty. I certainly don’t want to lend credence to any chauvinistic, heteronormative propaganda. There are darker corners of the internet that would twist my words and use them as evidence that I’ll only be happy as a “tradwife” and that my sex is inferior. The irony is, I know far more straight, single men who seem incapable of functioning without a woman in their lives than I do women who need a man to get by. Perhaps that is why alt-right “incels” hate us so much. In the immortal words of Cher, men are like dessert. A luxury, not a necessity. Just because we don’t need it to survive doesn’t mean we don’t love it or want it. Or that too much of it won’t kill us.

If I’ve come off as whiny and self-indulgent thus far, it’s because I am. Everyone has their struggles; this happens to be one of mine and certainly not mine alone. Many others my age are facing divorce, infidelity, infertility, family tragedies, and even already re-marrying. I understand that getting married does not mean happily ever after. I don’t need to be warned with cautionary tales about how marriage is not all it’s cracked up to be. I recognize that as with many things worth having, it will not be easy and will need consistent work. I am well-aware that life never turns out as we anticipate. My life has never been a fairy tale and I am not waiting around for someone to make it so.

My mother raised two kids as a working, single mother starting when I was 10 — clearly not what she had planned. She is the epitome of a strong, independent woman from whom I am proud to have spawned. But I know she gets lonely sometimes, too. I know she’d like to find someone again, but let’s face it, there aren’t many single Jewish men her age in the Syracuse area who deserve her. She’s met other single women over the years, often fellow widows like herself, but none of them have been as reliable as the gal-pal friendships she sees on TV and would like for herself. She’s lived as a single person in a couples’ world, and while those demographics have shifted considerably for her children’s generation, I know this isn’t what she wants for me. She certainly wouldn’t want me to settle in any way, and she’s always taught me never to compromise my values, but she clearly did not anticipate it being such a long road for me. She’s stopped facetiously lamenting that she will never have grandchildren, because like my once tongue-in-cheek claims of eternal spinsterhood, it just hits too close to home these days to be amusing.

I’ve been fortunate to have good role models, mentors and teachers who have taught me about healthy interpersonal relationships through instruction and through action. This is far more than I can say for many of the men I’ve dated or other couples I’ve witnessed over time, and it goes to show how many of us could use a few years of therapy before building a life alongside another. But when you’ve felt emotionally mature enough and ready to take all that on for a good decade now, you can’t help but feel like you’re failing. I know 30 is by no means too old, but it’s more likely now that my time to have the 3 or 4 kids I wanted could very well run out. “Women have babies in their 40s now,” they’ll say. “There are plenty of alternative options!” As if I’ll ever have the money to afford fertility treatments or alternative options, let alone the help to run around after kids as I age.

While I understand those who offer such advice are not ill-intentioned and do genuinely want to make me feel better, I’m sorry to say it is not working. So without further ado, here is what actually would: Acknowledge what I’m feeling. Don’t try to make it better, just sit with it for a moment as I often must do alone. Recognize my pain instead of trying to diminish it. “I’m sorry you’re frustrated.” “Your feelings are valid.” Even an “I don’t know what to say” is more helpful because it mirrors how helpless I too often feel and acknowledges that it is beyond your means to fix. This approach is more or less what psychologists recommend for addressing any type of pain felt by a friend, yet the general public seems so unaware of how to actively listen. If it weren’t for my years as a children’s grief support volunteer, I’d probably still be offering friends the same trivial adages and vapid clichés in their moments of need. That doesn’t mean I always say the right thing or that I don’t let my experiences cloud my perceptions of others’ strife. Yet if I can be open about the support I’d like to receive as a single person who’d rather not be, perhaps more people can better support their loved ones who reach out.

I do not need anyone to play devil’s advocate to my dreams. Trying to placate me with platitudes and pointing out the alternatives is not helpful. Just because your friend’s husband has been checking out escorts online does not mean it will make me feel better about not having a husband of my own. Telling me how much time I still have no longer assuages me as I have heard it for many years and it has become less poignant as each year has passed. Assuring me “the right one is out there, you’re gonna find him, I know it” is very sweet but also very untrue. No one knows this, even if you were also none the wiser before you met your significant other. Your luck does not guarantee my own, just as my sadness does not take away from the happiness I have for you if you have found the right one. I would rather hear something along the lines of, “You deserve to have what you want and I’m sorry it hasn’t happened for you yet.” I say “deserve” as opposed to verbiage containing any hint of pre-determination because even though I might “deserve” these things in theory, life is not fair. People often don’t get what they earn or deserve. But to hear you feel I’m worthy of them regardless is much better than false promises.

I’ve accepted that this is a situation that is just going to be frustrating until I’m no longer in it. I’m not yet ready to accept the possibility that this will never happen for me, but I’ve accepted that a time may come when I will have to face that reality. I am by no means actively stressed over this in my day to day, but if I come to you to vent or air some grievances on the matter, simply telling me not to stress sort of defeats the purpose. Unless I ask, I don’t need unsolicited advice on what I must be doing wrong, and I certainly don’t expect anyone to personally remedy it. If you do have a single guy in mind, please only offer him up if you are familiar enough with both of our personalities and goals to believe we would be a good match. And please, oh please, show me a picture first. If all it took was two random people who happen to be heterosexual and single, there would be no need for this diatribe.

Let me be clear, while empathy is what I’d like, I am not asking for pity. I recognize that I lead a full life as a single person with much to be thankful for and I don’t need to be reminded of that. Nor do I need the mournful glances of married, more old-fashioned women, who think my existence will not be justified until I produce another life with someone to whom I’ve eternally committed my soul. I know my elderly Moroccan-Israeli great-aunts and uncles will never stop asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend/husband, but we can raise our youth to be more open-minded. To those in the more religious circles I occupy, please do not let your children believe something is missing in my life because I’m not married. When they ask you why (and they will ask), use it as a teachable moment for them to learn that many people, even nice Jewish girls, do not get married right away and this is okay. “Jamie hasn’t found her right match yet, but she is still very happy with all the blessings she has.” You can be honest and tell them I do want to get married, but not everyone does. You can tell them to pray that I find the right one soon — by all means, you can pray, too! But do not tell them to feel sorry for me. There are young girls far more religious and under far more pressure than me for whom this attitude will make their lives a lot easier.

For my non-religious friends, I understand that raising children with the commandment to be fruitful and multiply seems outdated. I suppose I give it more reverence from the perspective of a persecuted minority whose numbers have still not surpassed what they were prior to genocide. But I still can’t help but romanticize the story of two perfect beings created for each other of the same flesh. I’m not so devout that I take the story literally, but I still understand and appreciate the metaphor that is recalled under the canopy at every traditional Jewish wedding. Even after creating the entire world and seeing that it was good, the first negative thing God notices on earth is “it’s not good for man to be alone.”

To be sure, there are plenty of married people who feel very alone. One person, not even a spouse, can be everything to us, and there are many great bonds and friendships in life beyond romantic love. Yet I still long for the bond a long-term, physical connection can offer and the fulfillment of creating and caring for the lives I’ve made with that person. Sometimes I question why these things are so important to me. Am I just seeking male validation? Do I just want children to rectify the flaws of my own upbringing? But then I remember that it’s completely normal to want a family and it’s okay to feel sad I don’t have one yet.

One thing my failed summer romance did remind me was that I should hold out for someone who makes me feel the way he did… I just need someone who also feels the same way about me. I won’t have to convince him of my worth and minor hurdles will not stop him from wanting to be with me. I may not have found that person yet, but I know in my mind that I shouldn’t be content with anything less… even if my heart often needs more time to catch up.

So until that person shows up, I will continue to be a complete, fulfilled individual while single. I will also continue longing to find someone with whom to share my life. This will make me no less fierce or independent than if I chose to opt out of marriage and motherhood of my own volition. I will have moments of exasperation and despair, and these emotions do not invalidate my strength nor imply my life lacks meaning. If I choose to share these moments of vulnerability with you, I don’t expect you to take away my heartache, only to make it more bearable. To the many women (and men) out there in the same boat, I see you. Your pain is valid. Your frustration is reasonable. I’m sorry things have yet to work out the way you want, but you are worthy of your dreams.

I was speaking to a group of girls whom I once would have called friends, but I wasn’t so sure where I stood with them anymore. I had become a person they no longer recognized, and in turn they had pushed me away. I was surprised to have been invited to this sleepover, but I still felt alienated from them while there. I wanted to be included, but I also no longer felt comfortable in social settings. Hence, my cryptic statement. I wanted to be compelled to do nothing without the fear of missing out that was tied to my increasing desire to withdraw from society.

So when the time came 13 years later to do just that, I have to admit I was not the least bit apprehensive.

“I prayed for this moment as a depressed teenager,” I joked to my co-workers. “I can’t wait for the lockdown.”

The deadly virus aside, the initial quarantine was an introvert’s dream. The urge to avoid human contact and cancel plans was no longer something to feel guilty about but now the marker of a model citizen. I could now retreat from the world and remain in my pajamas all day and be applauded for it rather than shamed. Before the weather got warm and my wanderlust kicked in, I was more or less content to stay home. I was worried about my mother, a respiratory therapist who was exposed to the novel coronavirus at least once, but thankfully she was safer and less inundated in upstate New York than her counterparts in the tri-state area. And despite the frustration of missing each other from opposites sides of the country, I think we both had the sense that in the grand scheme of our lives, this was nothing. Both of us, as individuals and as a family, had been through far worse and we would again endure.

Notwithstanding my previous traumas, I recognize I am better situated to ride this out than many Americans. None of my immediate or extended family members have become gravely ill, despite some of them becoming infected. I am not an essential worker and my life is not at risk every day. I did have to take a slight pay cut at work, but I am still lucky to be employed. In June, I was fortunate enough to find a cheaper apartment that had been rent-controlled for 5 years with a roommate who is now my friend. And while I’m not exactly thrilled about turning 30 while single and childless, there’s never been a better time to be both. (Well, being single wasn’t always great for other reasons, but you get what I mean.)

When this all began, there was definitely a sense among fellow depressed and anxious individuals that the rest of the world would now get a sense of what it’s like to live inside our brains. Everyone could finally experience unrelenting paranoia and fear, or isolation and despair, depending on how your neuroses present. Ultimately, much of the criticism voiced about the lockdown was the concern for individuals’ mental health. I would often hear people opine dramatically, whether on social media from someone I didn’t know personally, or in a Zoom meeting with someone I did, about how the loneliness of quarantine would surely kill just as many as the virus.

Although it appears the only time certain pundits and politicians in this country are concerned with our mental health is when they’re afraid of losing their money or their guns, I was still shocked to see just how alarming the recent data is. According to CBS Sunday Morning, while roughly 1 in 12 Americans reported symptoms of an anxiety disorder at the time of the report last year, the number had jumped to 1 in 3 this year. And according to the CDC, as many as 11% of Americans had considered suicide in the month of June. That is 33 million people. I can think of few worse things to have in common with so many human beings. It’s been a long time since I’ve had those feelings, but I know how real they are.

The fact that I fell victim to depression as a teenager was to be expected. There is a history of mental illness on both sides of my family and losing a parent at a young age was never going to work in my favor. Even as a child, I was inclined to contemplate the innerworkings of the universe and probe the mysteries of human existence. In plain terms, I overanalyze and overthink. It was only a matter of time before it all spilled over. Yet through the years, I have been stunned to see which of my loved ones have found themselves afflicted. From one of my most extraverted and vivacious friends ending up on suicide watch, to one of my most laid-back and easy-going relatives overwhelmed with panic attacks and a sense of hopelessness. No matter the circumstances, depression can come for anyone. No one is immune.

It’s not hard to see why the economic calamity and upheaval of social norms could lead so many to believe the burden of living is too great. Although social distancing was not exactly weighing on me like it was others, I have not been immune to the sadness of watching the country continue to collapse into itself. But that anguish isn’t exactly new. Truth be told, I was not exactly thriving before all of this, when every year that has proceeded 2015 has been continuously labeled “the worst.” Every new horrid occurrence now seems like a challenge issued to the universe each time we insist we’ve hit rock bottom. Honestly, how many of us average citizens were really having a great time before there was a global pandemic? Or were the problems we’re now facing head on always there, just exacerbated by COVID and now too hard to ignore or deny? Does anyone really believe that the society we built before this moment was so great for our mental well-being?

A few years ago, when I was still living in Manhattan and getting health insurance through the New York State health exchange, I was flagged for a screening with a social worker during a routine physical. Patients at this practice were mostly on Medicaid and Medicare, so I was glad they had mental health professionals on hand to speak with folks who were already part of an underserved community. The social worker asked me several basic questions and had me rate how much I agreed with various statements on a scale of 1-5. I remember I rated higher the statements about feeling like a failure in my career and having a general sense of weariness about the world (or weltschmerz, the perfect German word for such a condition). She concluded that while I was stable, I was still mildly depressed.

“Don’t some of these statements apply to everyone?” I remember thinking to myself. Shouldn’t everyone get a little weary about the state of the world and their place in it from time to time? At least anyone who’s paying attention.

I used the same rationale to justify my depression in high school, too. I found the apathy of my classmates to some dark political and socioeconomic realities very irritating and was told point blank by my therapist that while it was nice to have “a Peace Corps mentality,” most people “don’t join the Peace Corps.” So I convinced myself that once I graduated and moved on to bigger and better things with smarter and cooler people, my problems would dissipate. Of course I was wrong, and I was so deep in the dark by that point that only medication was going to save me. I should have known better, as my AP Psychology course had made it clear that external factors can trigger the internal chemical imbalance to which I was already pre-disposed. Yet by this logic, the environmental catalysts should not be discounted or dismissed to properly treat depressive disorders.

In Johann Hari’s book Lost Connections, he makes the argument that the medical community has relied too heavily on the use of SSRIs and various medications rather than addressing the societal causes of reactive depression. While I don’t agree with all of his conclusions, when some of the individuals deemed most successful by our society’s standards have died by suicide in the past few years, you have to admit he has a point. It seems quite possible that our “culture that values people based on ever escalating financial and personal achievements” is killing people just as much as faulty serotonin levels.

While I’m glad our present reality has caused some of the more fortunate and less appreciative among us to reflect on what’s really important in life and not to take it for granted, it’s also been a reminder for many of just how lacking our country has been in providing these important things in the first place. No one knows this better than the average millennial. “Saddled with debt, unable to accumulate wealth, and stuck in low-benefit, dead-end jobs,” we were already having a tough time before it all hit the fan. Now facing a second once-in-a-generation economic recession, we have been written off as lost. The solace we are all expected to find in work, in a world that values what we do above who we are, has left us feeling increasingly inadequate. We appear busier and more distracted than ever, not to mention the disconcerting numbers of Americans working multiple jobs only to remain in poverty, but we still fear we’re missing out and falling behind. The toxicity of our work places, particularly for women and minorities who are already under-represented and paid less, has reached a tipping point. Our youth seek validation from “Likes” in an attention economy as they’re drilled in preparation for a potential mass shooting in school. The communities we sought online to escape and find acceptance have dug up humanity’s worst instincts and weaponized them to extremes that have facilitated genocide. We are experiencing polarization in our nation on par with the Civil War era. Countering the white fragility I witnessed in response to this summer’s Black Lives Matter protests was exhausting enough for me as a white girl, not to mention for the people of color who have experienced a lifetime of disenfranchisement. Climate change has become so undeniable that the country is literally on fire. When another sizeable earthquake hit Los Angeles just hours after Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed, on the first day of the Jewish New Year no less, I almost hoped it was “the big one” and we’d finally be put out of our misery. A friend I shared this with was comforted to know he was not alone.

We’ve been pushed to the brink for years. Is it any wonder such a massive disruption could so easily push millions of us over the edge? Now there is little else for the majority of us to do in our down time (except for those so rich the rules don’t apply) but stare into the mirror the pandemic has held up to our society. More people are finally paying attention. And it’s depressing the hell out of us.

What’s been deemed our current “dystopian, apocalypse hell” by too many to cite is clearly not the result of COVID-19 alone. In fact, the source of our sorrow is likely the same ideology that caused America’s criminally negligent mishandling of this pandemic in the first place. With so many Americans suffering, and so many of our institutions failing to help, can we please entertain the idea that major systemic change is what’s required to fight the global pandemic and save our weary minds? Perhaps this neo-liberal, hyper-individualist attitude, infused into our politics and culture over the past 40 years, has not only brushed us aside in a time of crisis, but ultimately had an adverse effect on our mental wellness? Is it possible that the “greed is good” mentality that has driven our economy for so long has eroded our human capacity for empathy, leading us to hoard toilet paper and hate ourselves? Might it be the reason the social media we now must rely on to feel connected leaves us feeling so alone is because it’s part of the same hyper-capitalist engine that does not have our best interests at heart? And could the consumerist cult of selfishness that disguises itself as the American dream not only be infringing on our pursuit of happiness, but is in itself killing us?

Many will read the above (and Hari’s book) and believe it’s nothing more than socialist propaganda for the welfare state. And while my beliefs around mental health are not divorced from my political views, can we please do what we should have from day one during this pandemic and look to the science? What does the research done by medical and sociological professionals have to say about the state of mental health in America today? Because the numbers are in and they’re not looking great for most of us on this current course. Americans continue to report record numbers of unhappiness in comparison to the rest of the western world, a trend recorded long before social distancing. Mental healthcare was already severely inequitable, with a recent report from the United Nations attributing COVID-19 to exposing “decades of neglect and underinvestment in addressing people’s mental health needs.” And in a country where a broken, for-profit insurance system is often tied to employment, the people now most at risk are those now left without access to care. A recent survey even found that half of all healthcare “consumers” avoided seeking care because the system is just too difficult to navigate. So if I have a political agenda here, it comes as a direct result of being a middle-class American millennial with depression who has long been navigating a fractured healthcare system in a society now torn apart.

Luckily for me now, I have access to medication that helps prevent a major depressive episode. I have a decent insurance plan, albeit within a mediocre market, which I specifically chose for its low prescription and behavioral therapy co-pays. Yet a few years ago, in that social worker’s office back in Manhattan, I did not have the luxury of seeing a therapist. The fact that therapy should ever be considered a “luxury” in the wealthiest of all nations is ridiculous, but I just couldn’t afford the co-pay. Too many find themselves in similar situations and are unable to seek the help that they desperately need. If you do not live in a major city, your options for mental healthcare are limited even further. After everything we’ve witnessed this year, can we at the very least consider that there might be a better way?

A lot has changed since my teenage years. There is less of a stigma around therapy and mental illness and I hope today’s teens who are struggling will not feel as alienated as I once did. Despite the bleak picture I’ve painted, I know a lot of progress has been made. No matter how much we improve our culture and our healthcare, there will always be those that suffer. But I’m still pushing for a better future where less of us are hurt by our society’s current constraints and those who find themselves struggling have access to help. Just like my depression, the work is ongoing. But we have to first recognize we have a problem in order to properly treat it.

If you or a loved one are in crisis, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273-TALK (8255), or contact the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741.