In the middle of the pandemic, when everything felt uncertain and upside down, I made the most difficult parenting decision of my life.

We pulled our son from his neighborhood school—the school his older siblings had attended, the school just blocks away, where everyone knew his name—and enrolled him in The Shefa School in New York City, a school for children with language-based learning disabilities like his. It meant separating from childhood friends, from the comfort of routine, from everything familiar.

But it also meant hope.

Our son had been diagnosed with a language-based learning disability at age 8. He was bright, funny, creative—but reading and writing were uphill battles that left him feeling defeated and overlooked. In a traditional yeshiva school, he felt like a square peg in a round hole, and no amount of force-fitting was going to work.

Shefa means “abundance” in Hebrew, and now as my son is graduating the eighth grade, looking back, I understand how perfectly that name fits. From the moment we stepped through the doors—albeit masked and distanced—there was an abundance of everything we had not realized we were missing: compassion, wisdom, flexibility, and a deep understanding of how to reach children like my son.

The administrators and teachers at Shefa did not just respond to our concerns—they anticipated them. Time and time again, we would contact the school to raise a question or share a worry, only to find out they were already on it. Solutions were already being crafted before we had the chance to ask. We were never dismissed or placated. We were heard—deeply and genuinely.

What struck me most was how they saw our son not as a collection of challenges to manage, but as a whole, complex human being. They tailored his education to his strengths, nurtured his growth in areas that had once seemed like impassable mountains, and just as importantly, they made space for his emotional development. He did not just become a stronger student—he became a kinder, more confident, more self-aware young person.

As a parent, I worried endlessly about the social toll of leaving our neighborhood school. Most playdates had to be initiated and organized by me alone. Lovely as everyone was, it was clear: out of sight, out of mind.

And it was not just him. It was also me. I lost some of my parent community—the drop-off chats, the shared knowing glances at school events, the familiar rhythm of being part of something local and shared. Of course, there were also those who showed much kindness as they made a deliberate effort to reach out and include my son in social opportunities. Although those efforts were deeply appreciated and comforting, my son’s separation from the neighborhood school created a ripple effect, and sometimes I still felt like I was parenting on an island, waving at the mainland from afar.

I was also anxious about the religious differences between the Modern Orthodox hashkafa of our family unit and his former school, and the pluralistic Jewish environment of Shefa. I worried that attending Shefa could potentially create inconsistencies and confusion for my son.

But in the end, it was all worth it.

Inside Shefa, we found something even more meaningful than familiarity—we found abundance. We found educators who looked at my child and said, “We see you. We believe in you.” They gave him space to struggle, tools to grow, and most of all, the confidence to know he had something valuable to contribute to the world. He was met exactly where he was—with teachers who understood how his brain worked, and peers who shared his experience. The very things that once made him feel different became points of connection.

As for my concerns surrounding the religious education at Shefa, my son got the gift of tolerance and appreciation for the rich diversity within the Jewish community. He interacted with children and adults from a wide range of observance levels and traditions. This experience broadened his understanding of Jewish life and deepened his appreciation for the many ways people connected with their faith.

Now, after five years of growth and transformation, he is transitioning back into a mainstream academic setting—the very neighborhood high school his siblings attend—with skills, resilience and confidence that would not have been possible without Shefa. Not because he was “fixed,” but because he was understood. He was celebrated.

To the teachers and administrators of The Shefa School—thank you. Thank you for your endless energy, your patience, your brilliance, your belief in every child, and your willingness to treat each student not as a problem to solve, but as a person to lift. You changed the trajectory of my child’s life. And in doing so, you changed mine. For that, I am endlessly grateful.

To parents who find themselves where I once stood—anxious, grieving—standing at the edge of a difficult decision, unsure whether to take the leap, please hear me: The right school can change everything. Find the people who see your child the way you do. Find the educators who believe in abundance—find the place where your child can thrive. Not just survive, but thrive.

Because the right environment does not just teach a child to read. It teaches them that they matter.

And that is a lesson they carry with them forever.

Yael Weintraub
Englewood