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USA250 Journal Project
Personal Chronicle: July 4, 2025 – July 5, 2026
A gift for reflection. A record of now. A story for what’s next.
🖋️ Opening Reflections
To be written in the days or weeks leading up to July 4, 2025.
There is no deadline for knowing yourself. Just begin.
📓 Rebecca Roth – “Who am I?”
I’m Rebecca Leah Roth.
I’m a pediatrician, a mother, a wife, and—sometimes, when no one is watching—a woman trying to remember who she was before life got so loud.
I am the person you call when your child has a fever that won’t break. I’m the one who catches things early. Who follows up. Who doesn’t forget. At work, that makes me respected. At home, it means I carry the weight no one sees.
I am married to a man who speaks in metaphors, who still believes books can save us. And I love him for that. I always have.
I am the mother of two boys—one who breaks the mold and one who charges through it. Both of them teach me more than any medical journal ever could.
I’m Jewish, though not as observant as my parents were. Still, I light candles on Shabbat. I whisper the blessings. I feel the lineage in my bones.
And beneath the job titles, beneath the exhaustion and the to-do lists, I am someone who loves fiercely and worries constantly.
Someone who stays up reading about things she can’t control.
Someone who hasn’t cried in front of her kids in years—but sometimes does in the car.
I am doing my best. I am still learning. And I think—maybe—that’s enough.
📝 “How did I get here?”
Tell it like you’d want it remembered.
I got here through a mix of certainty and surrender.
I was raised in Cherry Hill, the daughter of a mathematician and a mother who believed in silent strength. Achievement wasn’t praised—it was expected. Emotions weren’t denied, exactly, just kept tidily in their place. I became the kind of girl who color-coded her flashcards and memorized facts as if they might protect me.
I chose medicine because I wanted to help. I stayed because it gave me structure—and because children don’t pretend. You know when you’ve made a difference. That clarity matters.
Then I met David. Literature man. High school teacher. He talked about metaphor like it was muscle. I’d never met someone who felt so deeply and still believed in things like public school, poetry, and love that grows over time.
We made a home that runs on lists and leftovers and books stacked on every surface. We raised two boys: Eli, sharp and sensitive, always five steps ahead of his peers—and Ari, bold and easy and blessedly loud.
I got here through night shifts and report cards, birthday cakes from boxed mixes, and tearful late-night conversations behind closed doors while the boys slept. Through COVID protocols and quiet disagreements, Shabbat candles and school board meetings that left us both shaken.
David is still here. With me. In all of it. He’s my sounding board, my counterbalance. He reminds me that gentleness isn’t weakness and that loving someone doesn’t mean fixing them.
Life has taught me that showing up—day after day, even when you’re tired or uncertain—is its own kind of faith. Not loud. Not perfect. But steady.
Family, Friends & Associates
David Roth – Husband.
Eli Roth – Son
Ari Roth – Son.
Miriam – Mother inlaw.
