August 26, 2026

Some of the most important lessons in life are never taught in a classroom. They are not written in books or delivered in speeches. They are lived quietly, day after day, in ordinary moments that become extraordinary over time.

For more than 20 years, I’ve worked in clinical research. Throughout my career, I have had the privilege of working alongside remarkable physicians, nurses, research coordinators, patients and families. Every person has taught me something about compassion, resilience, courage and hope.

But long before my career began, I had my very first teacher. My mother. Her story began long before mine.

She was born to two remarkable parents whose childhoods were forever shaped by World War II. My grandmother spent part of her childhood living under Nazi occupation as bombs fell around her. My grandfather’s hometown was also occupied by Nazi forces. They endured hardships that no child should ever experience, yet they never allowed those experiences to define them. Instead, they built a life rooted in resilience, gratitude and family.

After the war, my grandmother returned to Odesa, Ukraine — the beautiful city on the Black Sea often called the Pearl of the Black Sea. There, she met my grandfather. Three days later, he asked her to marry him.

Together, they built a home filled with warmth, laughter and unwavering love. That was the home in which my mother was raised. She inherited their resilience, but she expressed it in her own quiet way.

It was in the meals she prepared every single day. It was in the way she always made sure everyone had enough. It was in the birthday tables she thoughtfully created, paying attention to every detail so our celebrations felt special. It was in the way she welcomed family and friends into our home, making everyone feel seen, comfortable and loved.

Every meal around our family table was a lesson in human connection.

Today, I work in an industry driven by science, regulations, timelines and data. Clinical research demands precision, discipline and accountability. Those things matter deeply because every protocol, every data point and every decision ultimately affects patients waiting for better treatments.

But behind every clinical trial is a human being.

Over the years, I have learned that technical expertise alone is not enough. I often think those lessons began at home.

My mother showed me that caring for people is not measured by titles or recognition. It is measured by consistency — by showing up every day, making people feel welcome, and creating a place where they know they belong.

Those same values have followed me throughout my career.

When I was a study coordinator early in my career, I learned just how much the smallest gestures can matter.

I remember a patient who came to her appointment and during the informed consent process, I met her daughter only once while we were reviewing the study with the principal investigator. Whenever I stopped by to see how she was doing during her infusions, I would greet them by name and ask how they were doing.

One day, she thanked me — not for anything related to her experience in the clinical trial — but simply for asking about her daughter.

I was genuinely surprised. To me, it seemed like such a small thing. I had only met her daughter once.

To her, however, it meant something entirely different. It meant that someone saw her as more than a patient. Someone remembered the people she loved most.

That moment has stayed with me ever since.

It reminded me that while we often focus on protocols, timelines and data, patients remember something entirely different. They remember kindness. They remember feeling seen. They remember the people who took a few extra moments to make a difficult journey feel a little less lonely.

Throughout my career, I have met extraordinary people. Some of the strongest individuals I have ever known are not the loudest voices in the room. They are the nurses who comfort frightened patients. The research coordinators who stay late because someone needs help. The physicians who patiently answer one more question. The families who continue hoping despite unimaginable uncertainty.

Strength often looks quiet. Perhaps that is why my mother’s example stayed with me, as she never sought recognition. She simply lived her values.

The greatest legacy we leave behind is measured by the lives we touch.

A meal prepared with love.

A welcoming home. A thoughtful conversation. Remembering someone’s name. A birthday table arranged with care. A family that always knew they came first.

These moments may seem ordinary, but they become unforgettable.

My mother taught that generosity is found in everyday moments and that love is demonstrated through the quiet, consistent ways we care for one another.

We may not remember every conversation or every accomplishment, but we remember how people made us feel. In the end, it is those ordinary acts of kindness that stay with us the longest.

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Regina Portnoy is a clinical research professional and published author.

It is possible that a record four Jewish candidates will be on a debate stage, vying to become the Democratic nominee for the 2028 presidential election.

Illinois governor J.B. Pritzker has lost weight, but his wallet hasn’t. He is a billionaire, which might not be so attractive to Democrats. Rahm Emanuel, former Chicago mayor and chief of staff to President Barack Obama, has the smarts and the know-how, but voters may see him as too Jewish.

The same of true of Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro, who is a great speaker and has taken President Trump to task in his speeches. He’s also down-to-earth enough to appear on a sports podcast to talk about the Phillies and the Eagles, and has a sense of humor. He was once a volunteer for the IDF, which means he never fought anywhere with a gun, but the usual Israel-haters will falsely claim he “served in the IDF” to try to make sure he can’t be the nominee.

Currently, the political pundit class sees California Governor Gavin Newsom, New York Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez or possibly former Vice President Kamala Harris, if she could sell a run as a comeback story, as the likely nominee. 

But many are looking at Georgia Senator Jon Ossoff. On Kalshi, he is currently second, at 18%, compared to AOC at 21%. Of course, betting markets can be wrong. But Ossoff has shown an ability to raise money and he’s not afraid to take a shot against Trump. 

Newsom is handsome. He isn’t afraid to debate, having done well on Fox News against Governor Ron DeSantis (R-Fla.) in November 2023. If it means getting a Democrat in the White House, criticism over him eating at The French Laundry during the COVID lockdown, the high-speed rail project and the Palisades Fire could be downplayed. When it comes to looking and sounding slick and smooth, you won’t get better than Newsom. 

AOC is riding the energy of the Democratic Socialists of America, and the announcement that she is freezing her eggs (which is her right and has received too much criticism) is seen by some as likely signal for a presidential run. She will have to overcome her lack of knowledge on foreign policy. But she can get up to speed in a year.

On CNN in July, the host of “The Story Is With Elex Michaelson” said Ossoff “may not read as Jewish” as Shapiro. Political commentator Eric Messersmith spoke about the elephant in the room. “But on the Jewish thing, because he is Jewish, he might be the Democrat that could thread the needle,” he said. “Because even though he’s Jewish, he’s been very critical of the Israeli government, very critical of Benjamin Netanyahu … He has credibility on this issue …”

Michaelson added that “as a Jew, some people read a little more Jewish than other people, and Jon Ossoff may not read as Jewish as Josh Shapiro does, for whatever that’s worth.” Michaelson later apologized on social media, but the gist of what he said was correct, if he’s speaking about someone viewed as pro-Israel. Shapiro is also a very Jewish-sounding name, while Ossoff is not.

Ossoff was also discussed on a recent episode of “Real Time with Bill Maher.” The Georgia senator had said the president “wants to build his ballroom and travel with Natalie on their apparently defenseless flying palace gifted by the Emir of Qatar,” referring to Natalie Harp, an aide to Trump. In response, Trump called Ossoff “Pee-Wee Herman.”

Dana Bash of CNN, who is Jewish and has covered antisemitism, was Maher’s guest. “What do you think of this new star, Jon Ossoff?” Maher asked. “He’s kind of Obama-esque when he speaks … The problem is he’s Jewish. I know we don’t want to talk about that, but we need to talk about that because that is the situation in the Democratic Party. They think Gaza is a genocide. It is not. There’s an actual meaning to the word ‘genocide.’ It doesn’t come close. But as long as you tag that name, genocide, of course, what kind of normal person would not hate someone who’s responsible for a genocide? And they’ve all just signed onto this because they’re just big on buzzwords and lawn signs and bumper stickers, that’s as deep as they go.”

“And likes on their social media,” Bash added.

Bash said she’d asked Shapiro if he thought a Jewish politician could win a Democratic primary in this environment, but didn’t reveal his answer. 

Ossoff has not claimed Israel has committed a genocide. Michael Morris, publisher of The Atlanta Jewish Times, wrote an open letter to Ossoff claiming the senator threw Jews and Israel “under the bus” with votes blocking weapons and munitions sales to Israel in 2024 and 2025.

But in an op-ed in The Jerusalem Post, Ted Jonas defended the Georgia senator, writing that Ossoff has “always been a proud supporter of Israel.” Ossoff described the war against Iran as “another reckless war.”

Ossoff is a more energetic orator than Newsom. According to Newsweek, Ossoff has a war chest of more than $80 million for his run against Republican Mike Collins, a race that is currently rated a toss-up.

Many would still put their money on Newsom because he looks like he came out of central casting. 

And he’s not a Jew.

I don’t care about antisemitism.

That does not mean I don’t care about Jews. I am shomer Shabbat, attend a community minyan daily, have three Jewish grandsons (so far …), and a brother whom I helped bring to traditional Jewish practice who lives in Jerusalem and learns in kollel.

I care a lot about Jews.

What I am tired of is Jewish political and communal organizations making the fight against antisemitism such a focal point of American Jewish life.

We have organizations fighting antisemitism, conferences about antisemitism, committees studying antisemitism, webinars teaching us about antisemitism and politicians condemning antisemitism. Then, after something actually happens, the police increase patrols in Jewish neighborhoods, statements are issued, everybody promises that hate has no home here, and we wait for the next incident.

And yet antisemitism seems to be doing just fine.

Maybe we are fighting the wrong battle.

I don’t expect antisemites to be polite to me. I don’t particularly care whether they like me. And I certainly don’t think the Jewish community should measure its success by whether a university administrator, politician or activist issues the appropriate statement after Jews are treated badly.

My concern is whether Jews are safe, whether Jewish institutions are strong, whether our children and grandchildren remain Jewish and whether we are spending our limited resources intelligently.

Those are different objectives.

UCLA Is a Good Example

Jewish organizations understandably celebrated the settlement of Frankel v. Regents of the University of California in July 2025. The settlement totaled more than $6 million. The individual plaintiffs received $50,000 each, while millions went toward attorneys’ fees, charitable contributions benefiting organizations supporting UCLA’s Jewish community and UCLA’s own Initiative to Combat Antisemitism.

I don’t begrudge the lawyers their fees, and I hope every dollar going to Jewish organizations accomplishes something useful. But when I looked at those numbers, my reaction was different from much of what I was reading in the Jewish community.

Why are we spending this much money and energy trying to convince UCLA to be a place Jewish students should want to attend?

Maybe they shouldn’t.

UCLA has had controversies involving Israel, Jewish students, speakers and campus politics for decades. The recent problems did not suddenly materialize after Oct. 7, 2023. At some point, Jewish parents need to stop asking what UCLA is going to do about antisemitism and ask a much simpler question: Would I send my kid there?

If the answer is no, don’t.

There are plenty of excellent universities in America.

Jews constitute only a small percentage of the American population. We have been remarkably successful in this country, but we are still a tiny minority. That means we need to pick our fights. We don’t have the resources to fight everybody everywhere about everything, and I’m not convinced that getting UCLA to spend money making itself temporarily more hospitable to Jewish students constitutes a major Jewish victory.

Sometimes the smarter strategy is refusing to play on somebody else’s battlefield.

If a university needs to be sued before it protects the rights of Jewish students, perhaps the answer isn’t another Jewish task force working with that university. Perhaps the answer is fewer Jewish students applying there, fewer Jewish parents paying tuition and fewer Jewish alumni writing checks.

That would get my attention if I were running a university.

Somewhere along the way, however, American Jewish organizations became extraordinarily invested in being accepted by institutions that don’t always seem particularly invested in accepting us. I don’t understand that strategy.

I don’t need UCLA to like Jews. I don’t need every professor to support Israel. I don’t need every student organization to approve of Zionism. I don’t even need people to refrain from saying stupid or offensive things about Jews.

It’s a free country. People are allowed to dislike us.

What I do care about is what happens when that hostility turns into discrimination, intimidation or violence. And when an institution repeatedly demonstrates that it won’t protect Jews unless forced to do so, I think Jews should be much more willing to take our children, our money and our support somewhere else.

That isn’t surrender. It’s common sense.

I would rather spend $1 million building something Jewish than spend $1 million convincing people who dislike Jews to dislike us a little less.

Antisemitism Is Not Judaism

There is another reason I am bothered by the Jewish obsession with antisemitism: It allows our enemies to occupy far too much space in our Jewish lives.

Judaism isn’t about antisemitism.

My Jewish life isn’t organized around people who hate me. It is organized around Shabbat, Torah, minyan, family, community, Israel and our relationship with our Creator.

When I sit at the Shabbat table with my grandchildren, I don’t want their Judaism to be about Hitler, Hamas, campus protesters or whichever politician said something offensive this week. I want them to know why being Jewish is worth the trouble.

I think that is a much more important Jewish project.

So, yes, I don’t care about antisemitism — at least not in the way our communal institutions seem to want me to.

Obviously I care when Jews are attacked. I care when Jewish students are threatened. I care when synagogues require armed guards and Jewish children need security outside their schools.

But antisemitism is not going away. History should have cured us of the fantasy that one more educational program, conference, task force or carefully worded statement is finally going to fix it.

I would rather see Jewish organizations spend more of their energy asking different questions. How do we get more Jews into synagogues? How do we make Jewish education affordable? How do we strengthen our connection to Israel? How do we build communities that young Jewish families actually want to join?

And, most important to me: How do we make sure our grandchildren remain Jewish?

Those questions interest me.

Whether somebody at UCLA likes me doesn’t.

We don’t need everybody to love us. We need to build a Jewish community strong enough to survive the people who don’t. 

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Bill Gross is a Los Angeles businessman, husband, father and grandfather of, objectively speaking, the three cutest boys in the world.