I grew up in South Florida in a proudly Zionist household. I went to Jewish day school from kindergarten through eighth grade, and Israel was always part of the conversation at home. That connection came from my grandparents and parents. My mom had been to Israel once as a child; my dad had never been. But Israel was something we deeply believed in. It was the only place where we could truly feel at home. My grandparents used to say that when you arrive in Israel, you should kiss the ground. 

I started running track in high school. Around that time, I saw Munich, Spielberg’s film about the 1972 Olympics. That story stuck with me — the tragedy of the Israeli athletes who never got the chance to finish their mission. I remember thinking how incredible it would be to one day represent Israel at the Olympics, to carry the torch for them. 

I ran track four years at Tulane and clocked a 10.72 in the 100 meters. During my freshman year, I started reaching out to Israel’s national track team. My speed was competitive enough for them to take interest. But this was before WhatsApp and the communication eventually fell apart. 

After graduating, I took a year off before law school. That’s when I finally went on my Birthright Israel trip, in 2012. I’d always known I’d go at some point. A friend said, “Let’s go this summer,” and the timing just felt right. I didn’t realize how meaningful it would be.  

Even with my strong Jewish background, the trip was transformative. I saw my peers, most of whom had little or no prior connection to Israel, form real, emotional bonds with the land and the people. Watching that happen in real time inspired me. I knew Israel was the Jewish homeland, but I also realized how much Israel’s diversity was overlooked and misunderstood. I wanted to be ready to defend Israel in any way I could. 

When I got back from the trip, I was reinvigorated to pursue my dream of representing Israel in the Olympics. But that fall, during my first semester of law school, I suffered a TIA — a mini stroke — and I was sidelined for four months. It was terrifying. At first, doctors weren’t sure if I’d ever be able to run competitively again. But after a full recovery, I resumed training. Then, watching the 2014 Winter Olympics, I discovered skeleton. 

Skeleton is wild. It’s like nothing else. You sprint 30 meters, dive onto a sled that’s basically a lunch tray, and fly a mile down an ice track at speeds up to 85 miles per hour. You steer using your head, shoulders, knees, and toes — making split-second decisions. Your brain is processing a million things at once. You feel every mistake, physically and emotionally. It’s like being a runner, but also a race car driver. You’re balancing extreme speed, danger, and control, all in under a minute. 

It caught my eye immediately. The top athletes made it look so effortless, so I figured — why not? I could be good at this. I trained for a Team USA tryout and made the development program. Then I trained with the U.S. for three seasons. I was impatient and eager to compete for Israel. But then I spoke with an Israeli athlete who advised me to stick with Team USA for a while, build up experience, and learn the sport right. I saw a lot of small-nation athletes come in underprepared, finish last, and burn out. I didn’t want that. I wanted to represent Israel the way it deserved to be represented. 

In 2019, I made Aliyah and officially began competing for Team Israel. My first race was a top 10 finish. That was a really big deal. Most athletes in their debut finish in the 20s or 30s. But I had trained hard and prepared for that moment. It felt incredible to come out of the gate like that. 

Wearing the Israeli flag on my helmet elevated everything. It made me want to step up my game. I started training harder, dedicating my entire life to it. I had the thought: everyone’s watching, and this is Israel being judged. I have to go all out. I wasn’t just racing as Jared. I was racing as an Israeli. 

After October 7th, that sense of responsibility intensified. I was recovering from a serious knee injury — a bone bruise on my patella — and had assumed I’d miss the start of the season. But after the terrorist attack, and seeing the demoralizing global response, I knew I had to be out there. 

Training at Lake Placid, I brought stickers of Israeli hostages with me. I rotated the names — one per race — and placed them on my sled. Some people didn’t know what the stickers meant. One athlete from Malaysia asked if it was someone from my neighborhood who got kidnapped. He truly wasn’t aware of what happened. Others were deeply moved. A Taiwanese athlete came up to me and said he was sorry for what was happening in my country. An American teammate took one of the stickers and kept it on his sled while competing in Europe. It was powerful. 

As Israeli athletes, we carry extra responsibility. I felt it even before October 7th. When we’re training, fans will be watching, and most athletes just breeze past them. But during breaks, I stop. I talk to them. I let the kids hold my sled. I know that for some people, I might be the only Israeli — or even the only Jew — they ever meet. That means something. 

Looking back, my Birthright Israel trip over a decade ago made me recommit to my dream. It helped clarify what I wanted to do, and why. It reminded me that I have to pull my weight in the Jewish community and give back, the way Israel gives to all of us. I have one more shot at making the Olympics next year, and I know my grandparents would’ve been extremely proud of the mission I am on. 

If I were speaking to a donor, I’d say: the impact of Birthright Israel is immeasurable. I’ve seen it change lives. I’ve seen people go on the trip and move to Israel afterward. I’ve seen people Halachically convert to Judaism because of it. I’ve seen people fall in love with their Jewish identity for the first time. And for me, it was a reminder of who I am and what I was always meant to do. 

Birthright Israel gave me that spark. I’ve been racing with it ever since. 

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