I Carried My Kippah in My Pocket for Years: Then Came Clarity

"You know, to this day I still don't wear a kippah in everyday life," a dear relative told me recently at a family gathering. "I don't like being lumped together with a group. I'm also afraid of causing a chillul Hashem. It feels heavy to me. I don't want to represent anything. I just want to be myself and not have people judge me because of the kippah."

I understood exactly what he meant. In fact, I identified with his words more than he realized.

And yet, at the very same time, I disagreed with them deeply.

The invisible kippah may feel like a comfortable refuge, but eventually it stops being honest. I know that from experience.

For many people returning to Torah observance, putting on a kippah is one of the hardest steps in the entire process. In a certain sense, it feels like the final stamp of approval, a public declaration that says: "This is who I am."

It is no wonder so many people hesitate.

The Hardest Part of Teshuvah

In my own journey of teshuvah, walking outside with a kippah for the first time felt terrifying. I was convinced everyone was staring at me. It felt as though I had a concrete block sitting on my head.

I imagined people peeking out from windows. I imagined strangers noticing. I imagined endless questions and reactions following me wherever I went.

And then something unexpected happened: nothing.

The world kept turning. The sun rose the next morning. Life continued exactly as before. The dramatic reactions I had imagined existed mostly in my own head.

For quite a while afterward, I lived in a strange in between stage. I wore tzitzit under my clothes but went outside without a kippah.

That led to more than a few awkward moments. Once I rushed downstairs to pick up a delivery and completely forgot that my tzitzit were hanging out. Another time, when I arrived at the offices of a magazine where I worked, I quietly slipped my kippah into my pocket before walking in.

I didn't want people to think I had suddenly "lost it." I certainly didn't want them assuming that my professional opinions were somehow connected to my growing religious commitment.

At the time, hiding felt easier. That's why I understand people who hesitate.

But after a certain point, continuing to hide becomes its own burden.

Why Am I Hiding?

It's true that wearing a kippah causes people to make assumptions. It's true that, whether we like it or not, it makes us representatives of something larger than ourselves.

All of that is true.

But it's also important to remember that if we believe in Hashem and strive to keep His mitzvot, why should that identity remain hidden? Judaism was never meant to be something we keep tucked away in our pockets.

If someone chooses to judge me based solely on a kippah, that's his choice. But why should another person's stereotypes determine how I present myself?

After all, generalizing about every kippah wearer makes about as much sense as generalizing about all redheads, all residents of a particular town, or all employees of a particular company.

If someone insists on viewing all religious Jews as identical, why should I run from my identity because of that?

Personally, I am proud to be counted among those who wear a kippah.

The Wedding That Changed Everything

For a long time, however, I continued living with that contradiction. I had faith in my heart and a kippah in my pocket.

The turning point came at the wedding of a good friend from my army days.

I was excited about the event because it promised something rare: a reunion with old friends. At that point in my life, I had already taken upon myself the practice of making a blessing before eating or drinking, and that created a dilemma.

Should I wear a kippah to the wedding or not?

If I left it off, I would have to keep taking it out of my pocket whenever I wanted to make a blessing. If I wore it, I worried that the entire evening would turn into a discussion about religion and teshuvah.

Some of the people attending were openly anti religious, and I wanted to enjoy the reunion without turning it into a debate.

But somehow, things didn't flow the way I expected.

Most of the conversations revolved around careers, salaries, achievements, and trips abroad. Everyone seemed busy presenting themselves in the best possible light.

I tried bringing up old memories and shared experiences, but something felt off. The people I remembered from my army service seemed different now.

Meanwhile, I continued my ridiculous routine.

Every time I wanted to make a blessing, I would pull the kippah out of my pocket, put it on, recite the blessing, take it off again, and put it back.

After a while, I suddenly stopped and thought: What exactly am I doing?

Who am I hiding this from?

These people are so occupied with themselves that they hardly notice what anyone else is doing. Why am I concealing something that has become such an important part of my life?

Is anyone here really worth that effort?

A Kippah on My Head

At that moment, I made a decision: the kippah was staying on my head.

No more calculations. No more worrying about what people might think. No more hiding.

Maybe I lost the opportunity for the kind of reunion I had imagined. But I gained something much more important.

I gained clarity.

And from that day forward, I gained a kippah on my head.

For that alone, the wedding was worth attending.

Ten Years Later

Life has a fascinating way of coming full circle.

About ten years after that wedding, I happened to run into one of the friends who had been there that night. The same friend who, at the time, had seemed self absorbed and disappointing.

We met completely by chance in the Haifa area.

And on his head?

A kippah.