I never planned on moving back to Cincinnati. Honestly, it wasn’t even on my backup list. I grew up here, but like many kids who leave for college, I assumed my life was meant to unfold somewhere more…exciting. I went to college in Maryland, then law school in Miami, two places where eating sushi at midnight and complaining about valet parking is basically a sport.

I figured I’d end up in a big city with nonstop energy, ambitious people, and not a single Skyline in sight. But life, as it tends to do, laughed at my plans.

Twelve years ago, my now husband got a job offer in Cincinnati. 

He pitched it as a chance to be closer to family. I was skeptical, not about being near family, I love them, but about everything else.

I remember calling one of my best friends, who I’d known since childhood, had been my Miami roommate, and had just moved back from Chicago herself. She’d spent months hyping Cincinnati, listing every cool new restaurant, park, and suburban perk she could think of. 

When I finally told her I was actually moving back, she didn’t miss a beat: “Wait…you? You were literally the last friend I thought would end up here.” Well, surprise. Here I am. 

More than a decade and two daughters later, I can say with certainty that moving back was the best decision I never meant to make.

Cincinnati has always been my hometown, but now it’s our home. 

Not just because our kids go to school here or our house has a trampoline and a snow shovel, but because of the community we’ve built and the values that surround us. As a mom raising Jewish kids today, that sense of rootedness, safety, and belonging means everything.

Let’s be honest, parenting is already a full-time production. Parenting with a full-time job while your kids are signed up for everything from voice lessons to soccer because you’re a “yes” mom with a love affair with her color-coded calendar is like stage-managing a Broadway show. There are quick costume changes, surprise plot twists, and the occasional backstage meltdown, but somehow, the curtain always rises on time. Fitting, since both my girls love to perform. 

But when your parents live ten minutes away and your sister is five minutes down the road? Suddenly, the chaos becomes … rehearsed. Doesn’t everyone’s dad swing by their house while they’re on vacation “just to check the bushes,” then follow up with a text report that reads like stage directions? (“ACT I: Two Amazon boxes, one suspicious light on, curtain closes.”) That’s what love looks like in the Midwest, equal parts practicality and unsolicited surveillance.

The Jewish community here is something special. 

Everyone either went to camp together, grew up at the JCC, or their moms chaired a Sisterhood event in the same decade. Jewish Cincinnati is like one giant family reunion, just with fewer kugels and more group texts. 

The best part? No one cares what synagogue you go to, what brand your jeans are, or whether you roll up in a Tesla or a 2020 Hyundai. If you’re Jewish, you’re family. That kind of instant belonging is the Mastercard of credit cards: accepted everywhere, and completely priceless.

I have friends raising Jewish kids in other cities. I love them, but the pressure is real. Some bar and bat mitzvahs there look like award shows and cost more than a year of college. Cincinnati keeps things real and somehow, that’s exactly what makes it feel like home.

Midwestern values aren’t just a catchphrase. 

People here show up. They hold doors, shovel neighbors’ driveways, and bring in your trash bins. They start meal trains you didn’t ask for, and DoorDash you food when you have a cold. I hate when people cook for me, but I will always cook for someone else. It’s my way of saying, “I care, but please don’t return the favor. Just send sushi.”

It’s not just about kindness, it’s about perspective. Here, people live modestly, but give generously and quietly; in other words, humble homes, huge hearts. My daughters are growing up in that mindset. They understand the value of a dollar. They’re learning how to earn, save, and give back, whether they stay here forever or end up somewhere with valet sushi.

But most importantly, they feel safe being Jewish. They don’t have to tuck their Stars of David into their shirts or explain why they’re missing school for holidays. They’re surrounded by people who reflect our values, who show up, and who make them proud of who they are.

In today’s world, where antisemitism is on the rise, that kind of community matters.

I’ve lived near D.C. and in Miami. Great cities, but intense. I don’t take for granted that my girls can walk into a Jewish space in Cincinnati and feel safe, seen, and celebrated. That’s not just comfort, that’s peace of mind.

So yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m glad I came back. Cincinnati may not have been part of my “master plan,” but sometimes the heart knows better than the head. And my heart? It’s full here.

Jewish Cincinnati feels like home — because it is.