I’m careful about who I say this to and who I discuss belonging without belief.

Not because I’m ashamed. Not because I’m trying to provoke anyone. But I’ve learned that once you say it out loud, the room can subtly change.

I’m an atheist.

I don’t announce it. I don’t correct people. I don’t bring it up unless the conversation wanders there naturally. But when it does, I feel myself hesitate, aware that belief often functions as a kind of social shorthand.

It tells people who you are.
Where you belong.
What you stand on.

I’ve been surrounded by Jewish religion and culture most of my life. The traditions, the holidays, the humor, the continuity — all of it feels familiar and meaningful. I respect how much it gives people. Identity. History. Roots.

Belief itself, though, never clicked for me.

That’s a strange place to live. Inside a culture you know well, but outside the belief that binds it together. You’re welcome at the table, but there’s a language being spoken that you don’t fully share.

I see beauty in the world. I take time to notice it. I wonder how it, and we, got here. That sense of mystery matters to me deeply.

I just can’t accept any one religion’s certainty about it.

Not because I reject meaning.
But because I don’t experience it that way.

That difference shows up in unexpected places — like conversations about where to live.

A friend recently told me he could never leave New York. Never move south. Never consider North or South Carolina. I understood him immediately. His Jewish identity isn’t abstract. It’s lived, inherited, historically vulnerable. Antisemitism isn’t theoretical. It’s something he has to factor into his safety.

I don’t dismiss that for a second.

But I also realized something uncomfortable about myself.

I’m more willing to move because belief and religious identity don’t locate me the same way. Not because they don’t matter — but because they don’t define where I feel rooted. I already live slightly outside that circle.

When I think about moving, I don’t think about belief as much as I think about momentum.

I love the daily work of building something. The repetition. The problem solving. The quiet grind of improvement. That may be why I’ve gravitated more and more toward pizza making.

The craft is physical. The feedback is immediate. You show up, you work, you get better — or you don’t.

There’s no pretending.

At conferences and competitions, standing shoulder to shoulder with people from all over the world obsessing over hydration percentages and fermentation times, I’ve found something unexpected.

Belonging without belief.

The international pizza community doesn’t ask what you believe. It asks how you ferment. How you bake. How you think. Your work speaks first.

That’s also why building a community around Serpico’s Bread Co. matters so much to me. I’m not trying to replace religion. I’m not trying to replicate it.

I’m trying to create a space where connection comes from shared effort, shared meals, shared curiosity — not shared certainty.

I don’t believe in God.

But I believe in showing up.
In keeping promises.
In kindness without expectation of reward.
In wonder without needing explanation.

For a long time, I thought discomfort meant I needed to change something. My career. My location. My environment.

Lately, I’m realizing some discomfort is simply the cost of being honest.

I didn’t leave belief.

I just never entered it.

But I still set the table.
I still light the fire.
I still show up.

And maybe that’s enough.

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