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My son is presently studying at Aish, a yeshiva in Jerusalem.

He had dipped his toe into religious studies here and there after graduating from college, but it wasn't until about a year ago that he decided to go all in.

Many of you—my clients, readers, and listeners—are also friends and family. As such, you may know a little or a lot about my son. He was raised in a privileged environment, attended private school, and had his pick of future paths. He is an ambitious young man, and even as a child, he spoke with confidence about what he wanted to achieve and acquire in the world.

Once he had passed his teenage years, I didn't worry much about him. He is nothing if not resourceful, and I was confident he would find his way through whatever challenges life threw his way.

But going to yeshiva?

I was not ready for that.

I am a proud Jew and a devoted supporter of the Jewish State. But I'm also the child of immigrants who had to escape their home when it was overtaken by an Islamic regime that hates Jews and is obsessed with destroying their homeland. Over the years—and especially after October 7th, 2023—I have embraced my Judaism even more deeply.

But when my son committed to studying at Aish, it felt as if the ground beneath me was shifting. I didn't know if I would ever regain my balance.

What would I lose? Would he become dogmatic? Rigid? Judgmental?

Honestly, I didn't know what to expect. It was the first time I was in this situation, and my "expectations" were being shaped by the unsolicited warnings of other parents whose sons had walked this path. These parents, with only the best of intentions, were eager to tell me about the disasters that lay ahead.

They warned me of separation from family. Of righteous preaching. Of needing to fight the forces of religion before they tore our family apart.

I believed them. I braced for impact.

But my story turned out to be different from theirs.

A few months ago, I visited my son at his yeshiva. I went with an open mind, but also with guarded expectations. What I found caught me completely off guard.

The changes I had been noticing in my son were not unique to him. Almost all the young men I encountered there carried themselves the same way—not as automatons who had lost their individuality, but as distinct young men who happened to share a common foundation.

A decade of life coaching has taught me that our behaviors—positive and negative—are the downstream effects of our values. Not the values we talk about, but the ones that live deep within us, often beneath our awareness.

These young men were living consciously. And among 18- to 30-year-old males, that is almost unheard of.

They were on to something, and I started calling it, in my own mind, The Mensch Code.

Mensch is a Yiddish word. Its literal meaning is simply "person." The equivalent Persian word is Odam. But both words signify something far greater.

To be a Mensch is to be a person of integrity, honor, and decency—someone who does the right thing with compassion, dignity, and responsibility. A Mensch helps others without expecting anything in return. The word points to a genuinely exceptional moral character, someone who goes beyond merely existing as a person and aspires to something higher.

What struck me most during my visit wasn't any single behavior. It was the cumulative effect of small things.

The care they took with their words—understanding that words make worlds. The way they spoke to each other with genuine respect, not the teasing and one-upmanship that passes for male bonding in most circles.

The attention they gave to everyone they encountered—a friend's parent, a stranger, a beggar on the street.

The way they listened—not to argue or defend, but to understand. The curiosity that only comes when someone is trying to grow, not just perform.

And then there were the surprises—the things I didn't expect.

Their world was not small or parochial. They were forming friendships with young men from every corner of the globe, bonded not by culture but by shared values.

Their teachers were not the caricatures I had imagined—old men from the shtetls of Eastern Europe—but worldly, educated, open-minded individuals devoted to the moral development of their students. And far from diminishing women, these young men spoke of them with a respect that bordered on reverence.

I had prepared myself for the worst. What I found was something I hadn't dared hope for.

Should every young man go to yeshiva? Maybe. Maybe not. That's a deeply personal decision—one each family must make for themselves.

But here is what I know: many of our sons are struggling. They are unmoored, unsure of what it means to become a man of substance. And the adults in their lives—parents, mentors, teachers—are tasked with finding ways to transmit something like The Mensch Code to them. Not through lectures. Through lived example, high expectations, and environments that hold them accountable to their highest selves.

My son found his path. Yours may find a different one. Perhaps the code can be transmitted in many ways.

But here is the deeper lesson I walked away with—and the one I want to leave with you.

I almost let other people's experiences become my own. I almost accepted their fears as my future. And if I had, I would have missed one of the most meaningful chapters of my relationship with my son.

Don't do that.

Whatever you're facing—a child's unexpected choice, a relationship that confuses you, a path someone you love is walking that you don't understand—resist the temptation to let others write the story for you.

Go see for yourself.

The truth may be wildly different from what you've been told. And you owe it to yourself—and to the people you love—to find out.

Journal