A Tiny Hiccup

This morning started quietly. The kind of quiet that feels clear - unhurried, unbothered, like the world is still stretching its arms before fully waking. I stretched and hugged my dog, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for my Star of David necklace the way I do every morning. There’s something grounding in that small, familiar weight against my chest - a silent declaration of identity, support, and belonging.

As I clasped it around my neck, I felt something I hadn’t really paused to name before: gratitude. Gratitude that I can wear this symbol openly. Gratitude that I can walk into stores, talk to strangers, or sit in classrooms without a second thought about what it might “say” about me of how others might react.

Because for a long time now, I’ve been reading - and writing - about the rise of antisemitism and hate. The attacks on synagogues. The slurs screamed at Jewish students. The people who’ve been spit on, assaulted or excluded because they dared to exist visibly as themselves. And of course, family and friends that have been torn apart by the divisive and polarizing politics of late. And each time I read another story, I feel the heaviness of it - the disbelief, the fear, the exhaustion - but I also quietly acknowledge my own privilege. I haven’t experienced any of the extremes. Not once.

I wear my Star proudly, in solidarity, every single day. And I speak my truth when appropriate and respectfully. People have noticed it. Some have even asked questions about it. But no one has ever been cruel, dismissive, or distant because of it. And this morning, as the soft light came through the window, I felt profoundly thankful. I even thought - maybe things are turning around. Maybe there’s more good in people than the headlines want us to believe.

Then I came downstairs.

I opened my journal, ready to jot down a few thoughts before starting my day. A notification popped up - a new message. I didn’t think much of it until I saw who it was from. A friend. Someone I’d texted a few days earlier, just checking in. Nothing heavy, just a “Hey, how are you? Want to catch up soon?” kind of message.

And then I read the reply:

Thanks for reaching out. I’ll be honest that I’m uncomfortable continuing any kind of relationship with you due to the nature of your political views. I’m sorry because I respect you and appreciate you as a person but I’m afraid I just can’t accept your opinions which you are so vocal about. It really scares me. Thank you for everything though, and thank you for everything you’ve done for me and checking on me… I wish you the best.

At first, I didn’t even process it. I just stared at the words. Then I read it again. And again.

A few seconds later, my stomach dropped.

I think there’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t even know where to land - because it’s not about betrayal or a lie or a fight. It’s about confusion. It’s about realizing that someone you thought you knew you doesn’t.

We hadn’t even talked politics in months. Not really. We’d shared some ideas, sure - but nothing heated, nothing personal. We’d laughed, encouraged each other, shared stories. And yet, suddenly, I was a threat? Scary? Suddenly, my “views” were a reason to sever a friendship.

I felt this wave of emotions crash all at once - confusion, anger, hurt, shame, and disbelief. My first instinct was to fire back something sharp and unfiltered. Something like, Are you kidding me? The woke cult got to you too? How inclusive of you to cut someone off over a difference of opinion - without even talking about it.

And honestly, a part of me still wants to. Because it’s outrageous. It’s hypocritical. It’s the exact opposite of what inclusion and empathy are supposed to mean.

But another part of me - the part that’s tired of the constant noise and division - just wanted to sit quietly and cry. And I did.

I kept thinking: Is this really what we’ve come to?

A world where people can’t handle discomfort. Where we equate difference with danger. Where kindness only extends as far as the ideological line we draw in the sand.

It’s strange - because just moments earlier, I’d been feeling grateful that I hadn’t experienced hate or exclusion for my beliefs - (other than on social media but to me that isn’t real). And then, in a small, quiet way, I did. Not the violent, headline-making kind, but the kind that slices just as deep because it comes from someone you once trusted to see you, not just your politics.

It was as if the universe said, “Here. You’ve been writing about this for a while - now feel it for yourself.”

And here’s the thing: I know this is just a hiccup. I’m not being harassed. My safety isn’t in question. My community hasn’t been threatened. I haven’t been firebombed, spat on, or screamed at. I’ve lost a friend - that’s all. A friend who, for whatever reason, decided that my beliefs made me unworthy of her company.

And yet it stings. It stings because it feels like a microcosm of something much bigger and much uglier - this cultural sickness we’ve been cultivating for years now.

We keep saying we want tolerance, compassion, open-mindedness - but only if it fits neatly within the parameters of what we find acceptable. We talk about inclusion, but only for the people who agree with us. We celebrate diversity, but only when it looks and sounds like us.

It’s performative empathy. It’s hollow progress.

And it’s exhausting.

The truth is, I don’t think she’s a bad person. I think she’s scared - and I get it. Fear is powerful. It distorts. It convinces us that staying safe means shutting others out. It whispers that “wrong” ideas are contagious and that the only way to protect ourselves is to build emotional walls around our hearts.

But the more we listen to that voice, the smaller our worlds become.

We start curating relationships like social media feeds -removing anything or anyone that doesn’t fit the narrative we want to believe in. We stop talking. We stop listening. We stop learning. And before we know it, we’re living in echo chambers that feel comforting but are slowly starving us of genuine human connection.

I don’t want to live that way.

I want to sit across from people who think differently. I want to ask questions, hear stories, understand where others are coming from - even when it makes me uncomfortable. Especially when it makes me uncomfortable. Because that’s where growth lives. That’s where empathy actually begins.

This friendship, as much as it hurts to lose, reminded me why I believe so deeply in conversation - in sitting with discomfort instead of running from it. It reminded me that “being right” isn’t as important as being real.

Still, I’m angry. Not because she left, but because of what her leaving represents. This cultural climate has taught people that righteousness is moral superiority - that shutting down opposing voices is virtuous. And it’s so backwards it makes my head spin.

How did we become a world where friendship is conditional upon alignment, where disagreement equals danger, and where “tolerance” has an asterisk that reads: only if you agree with me?

We’ve confused moral conviction with moral monopoly.

And I don’t say that as someone who’s bitter or above it - I say it as someone who’s grieving what we’re losing.

Because we are losing something. Something sacred.

We’re losing the ability to be curious. To wonder instead of judge. To say, “I disagree, but I still value you.”

We’re losing the middle ground - that messy, uncomfortable, deeply human space where truth actually lives.

So yes, I’m angry. I’m hurt. But underneath all that, I’m mostly sad. Because I loved this person. I respected her. And I still do. I would have had that conversation with her. I would have listened. I would have explained. But she didn’t want that. She wanted distance.

And maybe that’s what this whole thing is really about - not politics, not ideology, not even antisemitism at its core - but fear. The fear of being wrong. The fear of confrontation. The fear of finding out that the person on the other side of the debate isn’t a monster after all, but just… human.

And maybe that’s too much for some people to face.

I’ve thought a lot today about how to respond to her message. I still don’t know if I will. Maybe I’ll just let it be. Maybe silence will speak loud enough.

Because what can I say that would make her see me again, rather than the caricature of me she’s created in her head?

Nothing, probably.

So instead, I’ll do what I did this morning. I’ll put my necklace on. I’ll go out into the world - not defiant, but proud. I’ll smile at strangers. I’ll be kind. I’ll keep choosing connection where I can find it. Because I still believe in people, even when they disappoint me. Especially when they disappoint me.

And I’ll remind myself that this is just one small loss. One small heartbreak. A tiny hiccup compared to what others endure every day for simply existing as who they are.

But I’ll also let myself feel it - because that’s the point. Feeling it means I still care. Feeling it means I haven’t gone numb.

Maybe this is the cost of staying open in a closed world - the pain of being misunderstood, the ache of being left behind by people who can’t see past their own reflection. But I’d rather feel this than build walls around my heart.

Because walls might keep out pain, but they also keep out joy. They keep out the truth. They keep out love.

So I’ll stay open. I’ll stay visible. I’ll keep wearing my Star.

And I’ll keep believing that there are still people out there willing to sit across from each other, coffee in hand, ready to talk instead of cancel, to listen instead of label, to questions instead of condemn.

We can’t fix this toxic culture overnight. But we can start by refusing to participate in its small cruelties. We can start by refusing to turn away from one another just because it’s easier.

So, to anyone reading this - especially those who’ve lost friends, safety, or peace over who they are or what they believe - please know you’re not alone.

Let’s keep showing up. Let’s keep talking. Let’s keep choosing connection over fear.

Because that’s how healing begins - one honest conversation, one open heart, one tiny hiccup at a time.

Ⓒ October 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.