Life felt perfectly in sync. My Pilates classes were thriving, and I was just a week away from completing my online nutrition course at Stanford. The excitement of expanding my career kept me motivated, while AI tools were helping me grow my presence on social media.
My acting career was on the back burner—my agent had started sending me out for “Mom” roles, which made sense as I approached 35.
Paul and I had been seeing each other for a couple of months, and things were mostly great. He was tall and handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass. His work—shooting documentaries and commercials—was creative and meaningful. He was big on social justice and women’s issues, which I admired.
Paul was half-Jewish, though I come from a fully Jewish family. His dad was Jewish, and his mom was Catholic and very left-leaning. They didn’t celebrate the holidays much, which felt familiar to me. He had an adorable Corgi named Falafel, and I could picture us taking trips to the dog park together for years.
We clicked in so many ways. We loved watching HBO shows together and shared an
appreciation for 2000s hip-hop, spicy Thai food, and our hometown Lakers. He humored me
by watching Vanderpump Rules, and I’d join him at the driving range where he patiently taught me how to swing a golf club.
Paul had luscious hair—curly, slightly graying—and I could run my fingers through his mane for days. He always left me satisfied, and our intense sexual chemistry felt like the glue of our connection.
It was electric.
But as our relationship deepened, his rigid worldview began to surface more and more, revealing edges I hadn’t noticed at first.
Small things started to emerge. He acted as if it were a crime that I enjoyed simple, innocuous things like the Pitch Perfect franchise, smoothies at Erewhon, or makeup tutorials on YouTube. He’d roll his eyes at my burning sage and dismiss astrology as “pseudoscience,” scoffing if I mentioned Mercury in retrograde. His black-and-white perspective spilled into even the most trivial moments, leaving me feeling judged when I least expected it.
Things grew more complicated when the Israel-Palestine issue came up.
It started off small—like when he insisted that falafel (the food, not the dog) was Palestinian, rather than Israeli. I shrugged it off, but his insistence lingered in my mind, creating a tension I felt was unnecessary.
As our conversations continued, Paul’s stance on the conflict left me feeling increasingly uneasy. He wouldn’t even refer to it as Israel; instead, he called it “occupied Palestine” or sometimes “the Zionist entity.” The more we talked, the more I realized how deeply entrenched this issue was for him.
One weekend, we went to a Judaica store in Reseda so I could pick up a gift for my grandmother’s 88th birthday. She’d been collecting glass dreidels for years, and every time I got her one, it felt like a minor miracle that she was still around to receive it.
Paul came with me, but I could tell he wasn’t comfortable being in what was essentially a hub of traditionally Jewish culture. There were Star of David decorations everywhere, along with a smattering of Israeli flags, and I noticed him squirming as soon as we walked in. He barely looked at the displays of menorahs, kiddush cups, or anything that hinted at Jewish traditions.
It was strange, considering he was Jewish too—at least half. But standing there, it was like he didn’t want to be associated with any of it. When I pointed out a beautiful blue-and-silver dreidel, he just gave me a half-hearted, “Yeah, that’s nice,” without even looking at it.
After I paid, we wandered into a luncheonette in the same shopping center. The food was incredible—shawarma, hummus, warm pita. It was the kind of meal I’d never get tired of, regardless of its origin. But Paul seemed uncomfortable again, glancing at the walls where they’d hung photographs of Tel Aviv and framed Hebrew writing. After a few bites, he couldn’t help himself.
“You know, it’s funny how people call this Israeli food when it’s been part of Middle Eastern cuisine for centuries,” he said, sounding annoyed.
I set my fork down, unsure if this was going to turn into another argument.
“I guess, but there’s a lot of cultural crossover in the region,” I said. “Just because it’s Israeli food doesn’t mean other places, like Palestine or Lebanon, can’t serve something similar. I don’t get upset when Guatemalan food resembles Mexican food. As long as the food’s good, who cares?”
Paul smiled, though I noticed the tension still in his face. “It just feels like people forget where things really come from,” he said. Regardless, he finished his plate and even complimented the chocolate rugelach we shared for dessert.
Later that week, after watching The Zone of Interest, things got heavy when Paul compared Israeli leadership to the Nazis.
Two different cultures can claim indigenousness to the same land; thus, the conflict. Did I always want to get into it, though? Absolutely not.
“I, uhh, get where you’re coming from,” I said cautiously. “But don’t you think it’s one-sided to see Israel as the only bad guy here? It’s a lot more complicated than that.”
Paul sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Complicated? It’s really not. Israel’s actions speak for themselves. They’re not indigenous to that land.”
I felt a wave of frustration rise. “Al-Aqsa Mosque was built on the Temple Mount, directly on top of where the first and second temples were,” I said, standing my ground. “So which came first?”
Paul didn’t want to get into that, though, and opted to take Falafel out for a walk instead of
engaging. When he came back, he suggested we go to KazuNori for handrolls, and we did just that. The rest of the night was surprisingly relaxing. The Middle East didn’t come up once, and we each orgasmed multiple times, a quiet reminder of the chemistry we still shared when things stayed uncomplicated.
Moments like that made me wonder why things couldn’t always be so simple with Paul. But it never lasted—his straightforward nature didn’t leave much room for nuance. It frustrated me that he couldn’t acknowledge the centuries-long complexity of the situation.
Why did everything have to be so black and white? Two different cultures can claim indigenousness to the same land; thus, the conflict. Did I always want to get into it, though? Absolutely not.
At first, I tried to compartmentalize. We didn’t have to talk about Israel every time, right? But the fights kept coming up. It felt like he couldn’t separate me from the political conflict.
Paul was reading two different Palestine books while we were dating—one by Marc Lamont Hill and another specifically on the Nakba—and he’d often share grim details. I’d listen and tell him I was glad he found the books interesting, but I could only talk so much about a conflict happening halfway around the world. At first, he seemed like a big Star Wars fan who wanted to talk about Jedis and galactic battles, but then it escalated to feeling like my Jewishness was on trial.
It still rubbed me the wrong way that he’d never been to Israel, while I’d been twice, yet he acted like he knew more. He always said he wouldn’t visit until Palestine was free, like he was taking a moral stand. I respected his principles, but it was frustrating that he spoke with so much certainty about a place he refused to see for himself.
Once, at a dinner party with his friends, the topic of Israel came up, and I braced myself. Paul’s friend made a comment about Jews being complicit in colonialism, and Paul jumped in to agree. I couldn’t sit there quietly.
“That’s not fair,” I said, louder than I intended. “Not every Jew supports the far-right policies of the Israeli government.”
The back and forth continued, the tension rising. “Where would you rather live—in Israel under Netanyahu, or in Gaza under Hamas and leaders like Sinwar?” I asked, hoping to make my point clear. Several people there didn’t even know who Sinwar was.
Paul shot me a look. “That’s not the point. The entire system is built on oppression.”
His friends nodded in agreement. I was tempted to bring up the hostages or how Palestinian leadership hasn’t always acted in the people’s best interests, but I decided not to escalate the
situation. We could talk about anything else—movies, music, art—and everything felt relaxed. But when it came to Israel, discussions quickly turned into arguments I preferred to dodge.
Later, as we lay in bed, I tried to ease the tension.
”You realize your name sounds like “Palestine,” right?” I teased.
Paul smirked. “Trust me, I’ve heard that one before. Maybe it’s why I’m so passionate about the cause.”
I smiled, but deep down, it didn’t feel as funny anymore.
A week later, we had dinner with my parents. I was nervous. My dad, who’s not a Netanyahu fan but believes in Israel’s right to exist, made an offhand comment about Israel defending itself.
Paul’s response was immediate. “Defending itself? By oppressing an entire population? That’s not defense. That’s occupation.”
My dad leaned back slightly, his face unreadable at first. “So, what would you call it then?”
Paul’s tone sharpened. “It’s about power, not protection. Israel’s policies are oppressive.”
My dad’s eyes narrowed. “So you think Israel shouldn’t exist?”
Paul didn’t back down. “Not in its current form, no.”
The tension was thick. My mom tried to diffuse it with a bright, “Mmm, love these shishito peppers!”
But the damage was done. My dad’s disappointment was palpable. He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking: This isn’t the guy for you.
As we walked to the car, Paul turned to me. “Sorry if I was too harsh with your dad,” he said, scrunching up his face.
“Maybe,” I said softly. “It’s not just about Israel. It’s how you always see things—like there’s only one right answer, and it’s never mine.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel like that. I just… I care a lot, especially as a Jew.”
But the gap between us ran deeper than any one issue. It wasn’t just about politics; it was about how we saw the world, and it was bigger than either of us could fix.
I nodded, not sure how to respond. Neither of us were especially observant, and he was entitled to define his Jewishness as he pleased.
We drove home without speaking, listening to a singer-songwriter playlist on Spotify. Then,
“Hallelujah” came on, and Paul brought up Leonard Cohen’s performances for Israeli soldiers during the Yom Kippur and Six-Day wars. I skipped ahead to Neil Young’s
“Harvest Moon,” not wanting to get into it. He muttered something about not being able to
separate the music from Cohen’s politics, which annoyed me, since I’ve always seen him as an icon. Everyone’s entitled to their tastes, though, so I let it go and focused on the road.
We had sex that night, though I wasn’t present. My mind wandered, thinking about how disconnected we had become. Afterwards, the realization flooded in, clear and undeniable: I couldn’t do this anymore.
It wasn’t just the arguments or politics. It was the way Paul seemed to view everything in such stark terms—black and white, right or wrong—while I embraced the gray areas, the complexity in life. The world is messy, and I’ve never seen a benefit to oversimplifying things, especially when it comes to identity and culture.
About five weeks into dating, my body had already been sending me signals in the form of headaches and lower back pain. My physical form was responding to something deeper—I couldn’t deny it.
Still, the sex had been great, and we looked cute together, whether we were dressed up for a night out or lounging around in sweats.
I’ll never forget the day we took Falafel to Rosie’s Dog Beach, then spent hours eating fish tacos and sipping mezcal margaritas. That night, the Middle East never came up, and it felt like a relief.
I think that subconsciously, I knew Paul wasn’t my long-term partner, but I kept trying to focus on what was working. Call it the optimist in me.
The morning after dinner with my parents, I finally told him it wasn’t going to last. He didn’t argue—just nodded, as if he already knew.
I need someone who embraces the tension of opposing truths, knowing things are rarely all or none.
As I packed up my things, I felt a strange mix of relief and sadness. Paul had so many great qualities—he was passionate, caring, and fun to be around—but the gap between us ran deeper than any one issue. It wasn’t just about politics; it was about how we saw the world, and it was bigger than either of us could fix.
Before I left, he felt the need to share one last thought: “I can’t support something that feels like a genocide, and it seems like you do.”
His words lingered, cutting deeper than I expected, emphasizing his all-or-nothing perspective. I took a moment, taken aback by the weight of his statement. It felt like the final blow, not just in this discussion, but to what was left of our relationship.
“I don’t support hate, in any form,” I said and left it at that. I gave Falafel a final pet goodbye, knowing I might never see either of them again.
Driving home from Paul’s bungalow in Culver City, I wondered how different things might have been if our communication had been better.
But it doesn’t always work out that way.
You can admire someone’s drive, share their interests, and still know deep down they’re not your person.
I realized, in the end, that our time together illuminated something important for me—what I truly needed. Not everyone sees the world the same way, and that’s okay. What really matters is how we handle those differences and communicate through them.
I don’t regret my chapter with Paul, and I’m grateful for the understanding it brought. I need someone who embraces the tension of opposing truths, knowing things are rarely all or none.
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