There’s a hard truth in life, and I learned it the long, slow, and silent way: if you don’t speak up for yourself, you’ll be passed over, stepped on, and probably volunteered to clean up after someone else’s kugel spill.
As I wrote in Full Circle, back in my teenage years at Young People’s Synagogue at East Midwood Jewish Center, I played the role of the dutiful nice guy. You know, the one who showed up early, stayed late, and never got the title—kind of like the unpaid intern who’s somehow also your carpool ride.
Leadership roles were doled out like parts in a high school musical directed by someone’s passive-aggressive older cousin. The person assigning them? A college student named Adam. And every year, Adam gave me the same role: guy who does everything and gets nothing. He made people co-officers who didn’t even show up. He passed me over for president like it was a sacred tradition.
And what did I do? Nothing. I sat there quietly, like a mensch with a clipboard, smiling through clenched teeth and rationalizing, “Maybe next year.” Spoiler: next year never came.
Fast forward a couple of decades, and the stakes are a little higher now than who leads Shabbat announcements. I’m running my own law firm, negotiating retainers, and trying to deliver ERISA compliance without losing my mind—or my voice.
So when a client recently slighted me, again and again—ignoring my reasonable request to revise a retainer agreement—I remembered Adam. And I remembered that feeling. The one where you know you’re being taken for granted, but you stay silent because it’s easier.
Only this time, I wasn’t seventeen.
This time, I said something. Actually, I said everything. I warned one of the client’s employees, “I’ve got one foot out the door.” A week later, I picked up the other foot and walked.
I quit. And it felt… amazing. Liberating. Like finally being promoted to president of a synagogue you no longer care about.
Here’s the truth: no one’s coming to rescue you. No one’s handing you the title, the recognition, or the revised contract. If you’re waiting for fairness to find you, it’s probably stuck in traffic behind a bar mitzvah procession.
So speak up. For your fees. For your worth. For your teenage self who should have gotten the gavel instead of the handout flyer duty.
Because being silent doesn’t make you righteous—it just makes you invisible.
