I found Shalom at a time when my life had gotten very small.
It was November of 2021, just as the world was starting to open back up again. I had spent over a year in lockdown with my partner at the time, and what had always been a difficult relationship became impossible to ignore. We had been together for ten years, but we had always had distractions. Roommates. The city. Work. Movement. Suddenly, it was just the two of us in a quiet house, with nowhere to go and nothing to buffer what wasn’t working.
There was no more avoiding it.
There was no more avoiding myself.
I started searching for something that could help me understand what was happening inside me. I was watching YouTube videos about mental health and relationships and reading everything I could get my hands on. I remember sitting in a park reading Homecoming and feeling something crack open in me. It was the first time I really saw how much was happening beneath the surface and how much I had been carrying without language for it.
I had already been in therapy for years. I was doing all the “right” things. But I knew I had hit a ceiling.
Somewhere along the way, I heard someone suggest going on a retreat. It felt like a leap, but also like the next honest step. My therapist mentioned there were a lot of retreats in New England, so one night I just Googled retreats in Connecticut.
I clicked the first link.
I didn’t understand half of what I was reading. It all felt unfamiliar, a little strange, definitely outside my comfort zone. But something in me said, just keep going. I booked a consultation. We spoke on Zoom, and during that conversation, I had an experience I couldn’t explain but also couldn’t ignore. At the end of the call, he told me I was ready for this kind of work. Because of COVID, he wasn’t seeing people in person, so he said, ” Go to Shalom. They’ve just reopened. Sign up now.”
So I did.
I signed up that night for a March retreat in 2022. And then life intervened. My great uncle passed away, and I had to reschedule.
At the time, it felt like a disruption.
Now I know it was part of the timing.
I went in July instead.
That first retreat opened something in me.
It wasn’t one big moment or one dramatic breakthrough. It was more like I started to see myself clearly for the first time. How I show up. The patterns I repeat. The ways I had been moving through my life without fully being in it.
Since then, I’ve gone back every year. It’s become a birthday gift to myself. A way of choosing to return to myself on purpose.
There’s something else that happened that still feels kind of wild when I look back on it.
If I had gone in March, I would have met my current partner then. But we wouldn’t have been ready. We both needed our own separate experiences at Shalom first. We needed to do our own work. When we met in November of that same year, it was different. It was real. It was something we could actually choose and build from.
That relationship is one of the many ways my life has changed.
But the changes go deeper than that.
Before Shalom, I didn’t really have access to a clear no. And because of that, my yes wasn’t real either. Now I have both. I can feel them. I can trust them. And that has changed everything.
I’m more honest. More grounded. More in integrity with myself.
I’m in tune with my intuition in a way I never was before. I understand my desires, my strengths, and even my shadows. And I have the capacity to be with all of it. The shame. The fear. The anger. Without shutting down or running away.
Outwardly, my life looks completely different.
I’m in a healthy relationship.
I make more money.
I feel more stable.
I’m less anxious day to day.
But the real shift is internal.
I love myself. I like myself. I can navigate the hard moments without losing myself in them. I know how to show up for my friends in a way I didn’t before. And maybe most importantly I know I’m not doing this life alone anymore.
Community changed that for me.
One of the biggest questions for me has been, how do I bring this into my life when I leave Shalom? How do I live this in the real world, in my day-to-day life, in my work?
My job is very interpersonal. I’m constantly with people. And the principles and skills I’ve learned at Shalom have given me something solid to stand on. They help me show up for myself and for others in a way that feels grounded, honest, and real. I don’t feel like I’m grasping anymore. I feel like I have something I can actually lean into.
Cooking at Shalom is a big part of that for me.
It gives me so much joy. It feels like putting on the perfect pair of pants. It just fits. It’s natural. It’s easeful. It’s me.
And it’s not just about the food.
It’s about how I get to support people. I’m feeding them, yes. But I’m also there emotionally and spiritually. Someone walks into the kitchen, and I can feel where they are. Maybe I can hand them something warm. Maybe I hug them. There’s music playing in the background. There’s movement. There’s life.
Cooking becomes this beautiful puzzle piece of my work. It lets me be in service in a way that feels whole.
There’s a quote by Ram Dass that says, “Be honest, feed people, and love everyone.”
That’s it.
That feels perfectly in alignment with what I’ve learned at Shalom.
And then there’s Saint Teresa, who said, “God is in the pots and pans.”
I feel that too.
I feel it when I’m cooking. I feel it in the simplicity of it. In the care. In the presence. In the way something ordinary becomes meaningful.
When people ask me what Shalom is, I don’t try to explain everything. I just tell them the truth.
I tell them it’s a place that has helped me in every single facet of my life. That one retreat for me felt like years of therapy. That it’s embodied and full of love. And then I say this.
If you feel called to go, listen to that.
If you don’t, don’t force it.
Because you don’t convince someone to go to Shalom.
You recognize when it’s time.
At some point, Shalom stopped being just a place I visit.
It became a place I belong.
And now it’s a place I serve.
I want to take a moment to express my gratitude for Nance, the director of Shalom.
On a personal level, her support of me and my work at Shalom has meant so much. She has trusted me, encouraged me, and given me space to grow into my role in a way that feels both grounding and empowering. That kind of support is not something I take lightly.
And beyond that, there’s a real friendship there. Not forced. Not performative. Just honest and human. To be seen, supported, and also challenged in the right ways is a gift. And I feel that with her. I’m really grateful for the way she continues to show up. For Shalom. For the community. And for me.
If I could say anything to Jerry Judd, it would be thank you. Thank you, thank you.
I feel his intention and his love every time I’m at Shalom. There’s something in the fabric of the place that still carries him. His drive. His tenacity. His curiosity about what it means to build a loving structure. I feel that in the way things are held. In the way people show up. In the way the work continues to move and evolve.
That God-given energy still ripples through. And at the same time, it’s not just his. It’s also the people who came after. The ones who stayed. The ones who tended it, shaped it, and helped it grow into what it is today.
People like Georgeanne, Elizabeth, Bea, and so many others. Known and unknown. Named and unnamed. Each one adds something. Each one carrying it forward.
What he created through his actions, his words, and the lives he touched is still rippling today. Maybe even cleaner now. His presence was firm and fiery. He was a force. And I think what he started has gone through a refinement over time, and I imagine he would love that. He loved pushing edges. He loved evolution.
I’m grateful for that.
Because honestly, even though I feel deep gratitude for what I’ve heard about those early Shalom retreats, I don’t think I would have been able to survive them. I don’t think I would have been able to receive what was there yet.
And still, I’m grateful for all of it.
Those early days led to this.
Led to me.
Led to a late-night Google search where I said yes.
And I’m so grateful to everyone who continues to show up and do the work at Shalom, keeping it alive, keeping it evolving, keeping it real.
And footnote, if you feel called to cook at Shalom, reach out to me.
Lol.
Scribe’s Reflection
Listening to Stephanie’s story, what stands out most is not a single moment, but a quiet, steady return to herself.
Her journey does not unfold through one dramatic turning point, but through a series of honest recognitions. A willingness to see what was no longer working. A willingness to keep following small threads of truth, even when they felt uncertain or unfamiliar. A late-night search. A conversation that did not fully make sense. A yes that came before full understanding.
There is something deeply human in that.
What emerges through her story is the power of timing. The way life rearranges itself, sometimes through disruption, sometimes through delay, to bring us into alignment with what we are actually ready to receive. What once felt like interruption reveals itself as precision. What once felt like uncertainty becomes part of a larger unfolding.
Stephanie’s voice carries a grounded clarity that feels lived, not learned. Her reflection on finding both a real no and a real yes speaks to a deeper integration. One that moves beyond insight into embodiment. This is not just about understanding herself. It is about inhabiting herself.
Her relationship to Shalom reflects that same integration.
It is not described as a place that fixes or defines her, but as a place that mirrors, supports, and strengthens what is already within her. A place where the principles and skills become lived experience. Where the question is not just what happens there, but how it is carried back into the world.
Her work in the kitchen becomes a powerful expression of this.
What might seem like a simple role reveals itself as something much deeper. A space where care, intuition, presence, and service meet. Where nourishment is not only physical, but emotional and spiritual. Where a meal, a moment, or even a hug becomes part of the larger field of connection.
There is a quiet coherence in how she lives what she has learned.
The quotes she shares are not decorative. They are embodied.
Be honest. Feed people. Love everyone.
God is in the pots and pans.
These are not ideals in her story. They are practices.
Her gratitude extends beyond her own experience. It includes those who have shaped, held, and evolved Shalom over time. There is a clear recognition that what she has received is part of something larger. Something built through vision, refined through community, and sustained through ongoing care.
What also comes through is humility.
Stephanie does not place herself at the center of the story. She places herself within it. As someone who said yes. As someone who continues to return. As someone who now contributes to what once held her.
Her story is ultimately about belonging.
Not just to a place, but to herself.
Not just to a community, but within it.
Not just to a moment of change, but to an ongoing relationship with growth.
And perhaps that is what lingers most.
The sense that transformation does not always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it arrives quietly.
And then stays, shaping everything that follows.
This story is part of Voices That Matter: Shalom’s 50th Anniversary
There is no cost to participate. Only a willingness to share a story.
This project, like all community offerings within Voices That Matter – The Scribe Project, is sustained through the support of those who feel called to be part of it, by sharing stories, spreading the word, or contributing to its creation and ongoing life.
If you feel moved, you are welcome to contribute in whatever way feels right.
If you’re part of the Shalom community, this is an open invitation.
Shalom holds 50 years of stories.
I would love to include yours as part of this growing living archive.