I went to my childhood synagogue for High Holiday services recently. It has been two decades since I last identified as a Hasid, yet I still find myself retracing my steps. Why did the kid who once loved this synagogue so much choose to leave it?

          I arrived late. Seven Seventy—in Crown Heights, Brooklyn—is no orderly house of worship. The pews and aisles were packed, blocking my way to Grandma’s seat in the front row. I hoisted myself up onto the backrest of the last bench, stepping from pew to pew—as little Mina once did, slipping easily into the spirited chaos that shaped my Hasidic childhood. The women in the ladies’ section reached out eagerly to hoist and steady me—co-conspirators in the joyful disorder. Mom smiled as I slid into the narrow space beside her.

          Thirty years ago, I stood in this very spot. Six-year-old Mina was “the pious one,” as Mom lovingly called me. This synagogue was a towering palace to me then, but now, when I come back, it seems dingy, and smells of stale sweat. What is it about this place that feels at once so familiar yet so strange?

          I have lived in Brooklyn all my life. When I step out of my Hasidic community, I feel like an immigrant. When I step back inside, I feel like a tourist. I’ve moved without going anywhere.

          Mom and I stood sideways, pressed together, peering through the tinted glass at the men’s section below. When the Hasidim started to sing, my voice joined in, as if lulled by a spell. As the song reached a crescendo, the melody swelled inside me, a tidal wave of emotion. When I looked past the sea of black hats, toward the altar, I could still see him standing there, the deceased Lubavitcher Rebbe, our community leader. I saw him swinging his arms energetically, urging the Hasidim to sing louder. I saw his radiant blue eyes. I saw his gentle smile. Something tightened in my throat—a sensation I’ve come to associate with this place, with the memory of my Rebbe. While part of me struggles to remember ever being a part of this life, another part of me never left it.

          To the “pious one,” the Rebbe was my father, my teacher, my king. He was my Taylor Swift and Santa Claus rolled in one. I am not sure what he is to me now. It feels like both yesterday and never that the Rebbe’s piercing eyes met mine right here in this synagogue. The Rebbe was not scheduled to be at the synagogue on that fateful Sunday afternoon in February of 1992, but my parents took me to Seven Seventy anyway. We were seeking the Rebbe’s blessing.