Becoming a rabbi was unexpected enough. I certainly never imagined divorce would be part of my story, too. But sudden success—and the crushing weight of a secret—changed everything. This is the story of how abuse and shame nearly silenced me, and how I ultimately found my voice again.
When we first arrived in Los Angeles, we were a struggling couple, drawn to the city’s allure. The movie business, the vibrant energy—we were caught up in the pursuit of glamour, even brushing shoulders with A-listers. Then, the financial success arrived, bringing with it ritzy vacations and a lifestyle we hadn’t imagined.
As our family grew, I wrestled with the guilt of not fitting the traditional stay-at-home mom mold. I was building a thriving private training business while still determined to be present for my children, ensuring I took them to every doctor’s appointment, sports game, and school event. The pressure to “have it all”—career, family, social life—was immense. It meant maintaining appearances, spending time with people who didn’t truly see me. I never felt like I belonged, even when I tried to connect with the other Jewish day school moms. My lack of confidence and social anxiety always left me feeling like an outsider. The connections I did make eventually became too close, a situation that would ultimately prove detrimental.
At 40, with newfound financial security, my ex-husband encouraged me to pursue my dream of becoming a cantor. It felt like a natural fit. With a strong Jewish upbringing, fluency in Hebrew, and professional music training, I was well-prepared. I earned my ordination as a Hazzan in four years, founded a synagogue that grew to 250 members, and then returned to school to become a rabbi, hoping to be taken seriously in a space that was—and continues to be—dominated by men.
As a new rabbi, I entered a world where I was vulnerable. I became entangled in an inappropriate relationship with my mentor, a celebrity cantor at a prominent synagogue. He held immense power. Lacking confidence, I looked up to him, naively believing he saw my potential. My then-husband, absorbed in his own pursuits and relishing the prestige of my new role, was oblivious to the grooming—the way these men in positions of power target women, especially those with successful husbands. I felt a shift in our marriage; my husband seemed pleased that I required less of his attention, that I had someone else to confide in.
This growing distance in my marriage created the space for me to fall under the spell of my mentor. The inappropriate relationship lasted almost a decade. I was consumed by shame, isolating myself and keeping the nature of this relationship a secret from everyone, barely even admitting it to myself. The breaking point came when my then-husband had me followed and overheard a private phone call. The resulting confrontation, in a restaurant with our children present, was traumatic for everyone involved. He left that day, vowing to make my life miserable.
Even after the confrontation, I couldn’t bring myself to tell the full truth, burdened by the fear of a lifetime of judgment. The lie I was living had brought me to the brink of suicide. Yet, I had to carry on, ministering to my congregation while facing the fallout of my husband’s departure and the rumors he spread. My loyal friends became my lifeline, creating a circle of safety for me. But even with their support, I blamed myself for being unfaithful to a man who was so “wonderful” in the eyes of others.
I wrestled for six years in therapy, seeking to understand why I’d been unfaithful, acting in a way that was so contrary to my true character. Working with a practitioner specializing in adult clergy abuse, I began to understand the dynamics at play with my mentor: the grooming, the power imbalance (my mentor, who I now recognize as my abuser, was 18 years my senior), the favoritism, the carefully constructed illusion that I was special. This form of abuse is particularly insidious within religious contexts because of the inherent trust placed in clergy. My abuser’s influence extended throughout Jewish schools, the community, and elite social circles—even reaching into my own family.
Despite my ongoing therapy, my mental and emotional health continued to deteriorate. I could no longer bear the guilt, making it impossible to do my spiritual work or move forward from the deep shame and self-hatred. Many of my friendships suffered from judgment and disbelief, while my intimate relationships completely shut down.
I finally found the courage to expose my abuser. He responded by spinning a narrative, even hiring O.J. Simpson’s lawyer. While the National Conservative Cantors Assembly initially protected him, other Jewish institutions—his temple and rabbinic school—eventually took action. Through it all, he never accepted responsibility.
My motivation in speaking out against him was not revenge, but to protect other women I knew he had groomed, women who were understandably terrified to come forward. Knowing I did the right thing brings me moments of pride and a sense of freedom from the lies. Living with such lies distorts one’s sense of self; my heart goes out to anyone who has endured that hell.
As the #MeToo movement’s momentum has subsided, I, too, have felt a sense of being forgotten. But I remain hopeful that my story will resonate with the next generation—especially young Jewish women like my daughter—empowering them to recognize predatory individuals within their own communities. This is not an isolated incident; it’s a pattern of abuse that exists across all levels of society, from personal relationships to positions of power, leaving devastation in its wake, as it did in mine. I’m not saying my ex-husband and I would still be together if I hadn’t endured clerical abuse, but this trauma irrevocably altered the life we had built together.
I left LA last year—the place where I raised my kids, founded a synagogue, and built my life. It was also the place where the weight of others’ perceptions became unbearable, where shame threatened to consume me. I’ve found refuge in a new home, where my shadow is smaller, and I can finally move forward.
Healing isn’t a straight line; some days, exhaustion hits hard. But I’ve learned to navigate the shame, to separate it from who I am. It’s part of my story, yes, but it doesn’t define me. As an empath who feels everything deeply, I’ve learned that it’s not my job to understand the predator’s mind. My path forward isn’t about trying to make sense of the trauma, but about self-forgiveness and reclaiming my life.
As Dr. Brené Brown wisely says in her TED Talk, The Power of Vulnerability, “If you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment. If you put the same amount of shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.” While empathy can leave us vulnerable, it’s also our greatest strength, the antidote to shame, and the key to unlocking true healing. Building self-esteem and surrounding yourself with supportive people—friends, family, a therapist—can help you reclaim your worth and remember that your mistakes do not define you.
This is my story, offered not as a guide to healing, but to illustrate the impact of breaking the silence and the strength found in speaking one’s truth.
Judy Greenfeld, a lifelong entrepreneur, published author, and Rabbi/Cantor, empowers forward-thinkers to evolve through personalized approaches to ancient wisdom and modern wellness. The profound loss of her father when she was 16 ignited her lifelong journey of healing and spiritual exploration, including somatic dance, dream work, meditation, sound healing, and Kabbalah. Beyond her role as Senior Rabbi/Cantor at Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas, Judy’s mission is to cultivate inclusive spaces where women of all backgrounds can come together, find support, and explore a path of self-discovery and shared purpose.