I’ve always loved reading, but until I joined The Shofar, I hated writing. To me, “writing” meant an introduction, two body paragraphs, and a conclusion. It meant drafting a thesis statement analyzing a boring Shakespeare play and trying to find a logical fallacy in an article about teen spending habits. I was good at writing, but English class was decidedly boring.  

Then, my life changed. It’s the beginning of my junior year of high school, and I am Regional Mazkirah/Gizborit on a weekly board call. On the meeting agenda, “Apply for the I.L.N.” is bolded in a big font. This was a requirement. I scrolled through some of my options, assuming Press Corps would best align with my position. I considered each team, and strangely, over TikTok, TableTalk, and Spotify, I was drawn to The Shofar. Again, I was not the fondest of writing, but I liked the idea of building upon a one-hundred-year legacy. Here was a platform that generations of Jewish teens used to speak their minds, to express themselves to an audience that would listen to and understand them. I remember falling down a Shofar rabbit hole, finding a unique array of articles about Israel’s foreign policy, tearful convention reflections, top-ten lists, and sports recaps. The article I remember most of all from that night, and the one that convinced me to apply for the Shofar, was an interpretation of an essay by Jean-Paul Sartre, a French Jewish philosopher. This particular article was so memorable because it showed me that writing for The Shofar could mean whatever I wanted it to. 

A few months later, I was given a Hub and eventually sat through my first Press Corps call. I put off writing my article for as long as possible, but eventually, the deadline arrived. I remember the blank Google Doc staring at me menacingly, as if it were challenging me to a duel. I tried to think of something unique that would catch people’s attention, like Jean-Paul Sartre. I blanked and just chose to write about what came easiest to me–my Jewish experience in the South. I thought the article would be unoriginal and cliché; I had heard the story of the bullied kid in a small Jewish community hundreds of times. I lived it, my siblings lived it, my whole region lived it. Regardless, I wrote the article and put my whole heart into making it something I was proud of. A few weeks later, I was featured in The Shofar newsletter and consequently received several texts from friends telling me how much they enjoyed my article. I was shocked; I learned that my stories didn’t have to be original to be powerful. They just had to be authentic. 

This started me down a path to love writing. I wrote an article about my favorite podcast, and I reveled in the freedom I had compared to school essays. There was no rubric, no rules against first-person pronouns, no mandated structure, and no unreachable expectations; I just had to write about something I thought people could connect to. Over time, I found my voice. The blank Google Doc no longer had a menacing stare. Rather, it glowed with possibility, my very own personal canvas. I also learned that not every article about BBYO had to be positive; Shofar readers are passionate, long-time BBYO members who want this movement to thrive and change for the better–reflection is the first step to action.

With my commitment to The Shofar came opportunities. I got to interview a Rabbi and ask him a meaningful question about his politics at IC. I scripted podcasts, received impactful leadership positions, met amazing friends, and read articles by other teens that challenged my perspectives. When it was time to pick a major and a college, I realized I wanted to work for a media company, an institution with a mission I value as much as The Shofar’s. Eventually, I started a Substack to write personal essays in a new setting. One of the things I wish I could have told my freshman year self was to join Press Corps sooner. With a passion for The Shofar came better writing, curiosity, confidence, and the motivation to analyze and reflect on the world around me.