Recently, I found myself flipping through some old journals.

And when I say old, I mean 1997 old. Handwritten pages filled with thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, and probably a little more boy drama than I care to admit. 😂

I used to write all the time. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes when I was happy, and sometimes when I was trying to make sense of whatever was going on in my 22-year-old world.

Reading those pages nearly 30 years later has been quite the experience. Some entries made me smile. Others made me laugh. A few made me emotional.

But what surprised me most wasn’t how much I’ve changed. It was how much I haven’t.

And it all brought me back to December 1997 and a trip to Israel that left a lasting impression on me.

A Girl, a Passport, and a Little Adventure

I was 22, had just graduated from Florida International University, and was getting ready for my next adventure: moving to Orlando for a Disney internship. But first, Israel.

I’d grown up in a Jewish home where traditions, holidays, synagogue, Hebrew School, and community were a big part of my life. My family helped shape that foundation, and I carried it with me.

Thanks in part to a scholarship through my grandparents’ synagogue, I had the opportunity to spend two weeks exploring a country I’d learned about my entire life but had never seen.

And while I was excited about the history and heritage, let’s remember something important. I was also 22.

There were new friends to make, places to explore, clubs to visit, and, apparently, a little flirting to be done. Some of those details may not have made it into the trip recap I shared with Grandma and Poppy. 😂

I traveled with a group of college students, most of whom I’d never met. Within days, strangers became friends, and we were sharing experiences that would stay with me long after our suitcases were unpacked.

Looking back, I realize how much I loved that part of the adventure. Meeting people, hearing their stories, finding connections. Turns out, that hasn’t changed much either.

History Books Don’t Quite Prepare You

Our itinerary was packed. Jerusalem. Masada. Tel Aviv. Historical sites. Memorials. Conversations with people who called Israel home.

I’d learned so much about Jewish history growing up, but standing in those places was entirely different from reading about them.

We climbed Masada before sunrise, toured the ancient ruins, and, if memory serves me correctly, headed to the Dead Sea afterward.

Fun fact: I am not a fan of cold water and it was December. I generally prefer my swimming water somewhere around 85 degrees, thank you very much.

But how many opportunities was I going to have to stand in the Dead Sea? So I went in a little, got a little muddy, and called it an experience. 😂

Other moments were much quieter. Visiting Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial, was incredibly moving. I still remember the children’s memorial, the lights, and the overwhelming weight of the lives represented there.

There were also conversations with people living near the border, who shared what everyday life was like for them. These weren’t just places on an itinerary anymore. They were people, stories, history, and emotions. And I was taking it all in.

Jerusalem, Candles, and a Little Piece of Home

When I think about Jerusalem, one of the first memories that comes back is the first night of Chanukah.

Our group stopped along the roadside, lit candles, said the blessings, sang, and danced. I couldn’t tell you exactly where we were standing or whether the stop was planned. But I remember the feeling.

There I was, thousands of miles from home, celebrating a holiday I’d known my entire life, surrounded by people who understood the traditions without needing an explanation. It felt familiar and new all at once.

Another moment I’ll never forget was visiting the Western Wall.

Before I left home, Mom and Grandma Rose had each given me a handwritten prayer to place between the stones. I never read them. They weren’t mine to read. I simply carried them across the world and placed them where they’d asked me to.

Even now, that memory makes me emotional. Mom, Grandma Rose, and Poppy gave me so much more than holiday traditions. They gave me a connection to something bigger than myself.

L’Dor Vador. From generation to generation. And there I was, carrying a little piece of them with me.

A Photograph, a Song, and a Moment Just for Me

One of my favorite keepsakes from that trip isn’t something I bought. It’s a photograph I took.

During some free time in Tel Aviv, I ventured out alone for a short walk along the Mediterranean Sea. I remember watching the waves crash against the rocks and wanting to capture the moment.

The picture I took that day is still framed in my office. Nearly 30 years later.

It’s not a professionally composed photograph. It’s not a postcard-perfect image. It’s mine.

A moment when a somewhat uncertain 22-year-old ventured out on her own, explored a little, and stopped long enough to appreciate what was right in front of her.

And then there’s music. Because, there is always music.

In one of my journal entries from February 1998, I wrote about listening to Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden while looking at that very photograph. To this day, that song takes me right back to Israel.

Isn’t it amazing how music can do that? One song, and suddenly you’re somewhere else entirely. Different decade. Different place. Same feelings. And wouldn’t you know it? While I was putting this story together, Truly Madly Deeply randomly came on in my car. Of all the songs! Nearly 30 years later, apparently the soundtrack hasn’t changed either. 😂❤️

Finding Her Again

As I’ve been rereading these journals, I’ve noticed something. At 22, I was trying to understand myself.

I wanted adventure and connection. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to belong. I wanted to explore the world and figure out where I fit into it.

I was confident in some moments and insecure in others. I could be outgoing and adventurous, yet still question myself.

And while I’ve lived an awful lot of life since then, I recognize that girl.

I’m still sentimental. Still curious. Still someone who finds meaning in a song, a photograph, a handwritten note, or a seemingly ordinary moment. I still love meeting people and hearing their stories.

And yes, I still occasionally overthink things. Shocking, I know. 😂

But something has changed. My voice is stronger now. And I have more confidence in using it.

I’ve learned to trust myself a little more. To appreciate the experiences that have shaped me. To recognize that I don’t need to have every answer.

Perhaps that’s one of the gifts of getting older. Not becoming an entirely different person, but getting more comfortable being the person you’ve always been.

Almost 30 Years Later

I returned to Israel years later, this time accompanying college students through my work with Hillel. Those trips were different. I had responsibilities, a different perspective, and a new chapter of life underway.

But I loved watching those students experience places I’d first discovered at 22. Somewhere along the way, Israel had become part of my story in more ways than I could have imagined.

And now, nearly three decades after that first trip, I’m sitting here with old journals, a framed photograph, and a song that can transport me back in seconds.

When I first reread those pages, I thought I might find a younger version of myself who had so much to learn. And she did. But I also found someone who was already pretty wonderful, even if she didn’t always recognize it.

If I could go back to December 1997 and find that 22-year-old girl standing by the Mediterranean Sea, I wouldn’t give her advice. I wouldn’t tell her what was coming or what she should do differently.

I’d give her a hug. And I’d tell her she’s doing just fine.

Turns out, she always was. ❤️