In general, I’m a card-carrying hugger. But when meeting any member of the opposite sex for the first time, there’s usually about a five-second delay before I remember to put out my hand for a handshake. It’s not something anyone would notice. But, for me, those five seconds symbolize an inner tension with and yet respect for part of my tradition, the Orthodox approach to heterosexual gender relations.

At my dad’s, I grew up with the concept of shomer negiah, literally “guarding touch,” a traditional practice that men and women (other than family) refrain from touching until marriage. In practice, this meant I had uncle-like family friends I hadn’t so much as high-fived, and I was plenty familiar with the classic “sup” nod in lieu of a handshake.

But what shomer negiah means on a larger scale is a person’s first hand-hold, kiss and anything beyond should be singular experiences with a chosen life partner. At its core, the purpose of the practice is to foster marital intimacy, so, as you’d expect, Orthodox dating is often marriage-oriented.

Judaism isn’t the only religion that practices a form of shomer negiah. Many Muslims also traditionally don’t touch nonmahrams — members of the opposite gender outside family — until marriage, while several other religions have traditions of premarital celibacy.

Before I go on, I have to admit this was an article I didn’t want to write from a personal perspective. Speaking about the Orthodox approach to gender relations has been on my mind, but before, I’ve balked, because it’s messy coming from a dual background. Engaging with this topic means admitting a deep ambivalence with and respect for a communal norm few of my peers can relate to. It also means publicly talking about something I learned should be private.

But for me, this discomfort is why it’s worth writing about. Many religious students grow up with theology about gender relations, and in college (if not before) find themselves in environments where their norms aren’t so normative. The complexities of navigating that disconnect — and engaging with those norms as individuals — is exactly the kind of gray area that motivates me to write about religion.

While I’d always thought about the concept, in college I realized how much existing in shomer negiah environments set up my expectations about gender relations.

Mainly, I wasn’t used to feeling clueless. I spent a lot of time in Orthodox contexts where you could safely assume that other than conversation, men didn’t expect, well, anything — no proverbial bases to run around.

In college, I found myself saying and doing things that, to me, meant being friendly but to others meant something else in an unspoken language I hadn’t learned. For example, it didn’t occur to me that inviting a guy to hang out at my place or being invited to his could or should be seen as a come-on — though apparently, it sometimes was. I thought the man on Telegraph and I were having such a nice conversation about his work until he, citing my “bubbly personality,” launched into an unexpected speech about how age didn’t matter and he’d be OK with cuddling first. I quickly learned to watch my words and actions with a little more care.

Each one of these little culture shocks forced me to think about shomer negiah, reminding me of the theological debates I had with myself growing up.

In some ways, I thought the Orthodox approach was beautiful, and I always will. The concept behind shomer negiah is that touch, at its essence, is a source of connection, and the limits sensitize a person so that one day it can be all the more meaningful. Touch, then, isn’t dirty, but sacred — and the practice isn’t anti-sex but intimidatingly sex positive. The underlying trope is: “This is the holiest, most unifying thing you can do with another person, so be choosy.”

But a part of me had, and still has, a value conflict with the line drawn between genders. By intentionally assigning so much significance to touch, shomer negiah makes the opposite gender distinctly “other,” a group you can’t help but think of differently because the way you interact with them is profoundly different. An Orthodox perspective might be, well, men and women are distinct. But my issue is that when you hug someone, for example, I think you have a choice to see that person as a man or woman or as just another person, and I see great value in learning to make that choice. I have the same hang-up about the slippery-slope principle that nixes romantic touch altogether — the idea that any touch can lead to unthoughtout decisions about sex. It puts little faith in our ability to make decisions.

Ultimately, I can’t say I’ve reconciled the two views: The Orthodox Jewish approach to gender relations still both agitates and inspires me. But I think it’s the attempt at reconciliation, not just reconciliation itself, that defines religious life. And while I hesitated to write this article because of a discomfort with publicizing loose ends, I think there’s something to be said for messy stories. To talk honestly about religion involves engaging with the uncomfortable and unresolved.

Sara Weissman writes the Monday column on religious identities. You can contact her at [email protected].