Posted on July 18, 2025
“My long-term concern in the corporate world is subtle bias.”
My name is Rena (Davis) Nickerson, Bronfman ‘92. I am an executive at a Fortune 50 food & beverage company, where I run a large division in the Canadian subsidiary. My husband and I have two grown kids who live in Manhattan, where I grew up. I’m deeply involved in the Jewish community in Toronto. I work to inspire others, especially students and young professionals, to connect with their Jewish identity.
When I think about the last 20 months, I am blessed that I don’t experience direct antisemitism day to day. I see it online. And I feel its presence looming as I greet our security guards at synagogue. I have real concerns about the future.
I worry especially about the corporate workplace in 5 years — or sooner. Today’s Jewish students may report to managers who once joined anti-Israel protests and internalized certain biases.
In the large-scale corporate environment where I work, there are clear rules, internal accountability, and less public scrutiny. Overt antisemitism, like racism or homophobia, is not tolerated. I have friends in academia, unions, and government jobs who are less protected than I am. Pew recently reported that 89% of American Jews see antisemitism increasing since October 7, 2023.
My long-term concern in the corporate world is subtle bias. When a young Jewish employee mentions a recent trip to Jerusalem, a manager who once shared anti-Israel social media posts might quietly judge them as unethical. Maybe nothing is said, but the perception lingers. And as Israel becomes more of a pariah state, that quiet marginalization could grow. “Israel” and certainly “Zionism” become taboo as the very concepts become our secret belief, or even a source of shame. That scares me.
With seniority and less personal risk, I feel a sense of obligation to support the next generation. I believe we have a responsibility to make sure workplaces remain safe, that we hold ourselves to high standards, and that we don’t let people get away with harmful behavior.
We also need to equip young professionals to succeed: to be proud of who they are and what they believe, and to do their jobs well. Even small things, like the speed mentoring program I worked on with Elizabeth Ochs for Bronfman alumni, can make a difference. Devoting a little time can go a long way in helping someone find their path. I am involved in a few programs, but I need to do more.
I wear my Magen David daily — I see myself as a representative of the Jewish people. My husband and son wear kippot; why should I “pass?” Even if I say nothing, being an ethical, fair, and kind leader reflects well on all Jews when I’m known as one. And if I acted poorly, that would reflect too. So I hold myself to a high standard, though I am not perfect. I also love Judaism and my community; my faith is core to my identity.
When I join a new team, I tell them: I’m an Orthodox Jew — this is what it means, these are the values I live by, and here’s how it might be relevant to you. Many have never met another Jew, let alone worked for one, and I’ve only ever been met with respect and kindness when I share openly. That creates space for others to do the same — to share what they believe and what boundaries they set.
I’m very clear about mine. I don’t work on Shabbat — you’ll never see an email or text from me Friday night or Saturday. I tell them, “You got lucky — your boss is offline 25 hours a week. And if I can unplug for that long, you can put your phone down during dinner.” It’s a healthy standard. I’ll mention Israel when it comes up — I’ll talk about my trips and family there — but I’m also careful. The office isn’t the place for politics or heavy topics, and I’m mindful of that.
After October 7, my colleague started a Jewish affinity group at work called ”Chaverim”. It’s the first of its kind in our company. It’s become a powerful space — not just to share grief, as we did early on, but also to celebrate, to connect, to just be ourselves.
I’m very visibly Jewish online, too. I use LinkedIn to talk about Jewish pride, values, observance, and antisemitism. I’m careful to avoid getting “political” there, but I’ve been vocal about my identity and beliefs, and it’s had an impact. People I’ve never met stop me in airports, in shul, and online to thank me, to tell me my posts boosted their Jewish pride or gave them the courage to ask for time off for holidays. That’s what makes it worth it. Having a voice and a professional purpose that aligns with my deeper values is deeply meaningful. Since October 7, it’s felt even more necessary. For some people, I know I’ve made a difference.
I’ve often spoken about how important — and how hard — it is to find strength in yourself and know your value without needing to hear from someone else that you’re worthy. I’ve always thought about that in a professional context — grappling with impostor syndrome and workplace validation — but right now, it feels even more relevant in a broader sense.
My mother always said that if you want to instill values in your children, you need to start seven years early. You can’t wait until your son is in university to tell him he should date a Jewish girl; by then, it’s too late. The way we raised our kids gave them a foundation of Jewish pride that guides how they make decisions, big and small.
I don’t know what the future holds. Whether we will ever return to the heyday of pre-2023 North American Jewry or whether we’ll have to fight for acceptance and basic protection — we need to be strong and united in our core beliefs. The minute you stop believing you deserve a homeland, or a cultural, religious, or familial identity as a Jew — because the world tells you we don’t — you’ll slip away. And what a tragedy that would be.
If your sense of worth as a Jew depends on how the world sees you, you won’t be able to hold on. This isn’t a religion for the faint of heart.
I was in Israel recently, visiting a hospitalized relative, during Yom HaSho’ah (Holocaust Memorial Day). I went to the lookout at Yad VaShem as the memorial siren sounded. I looked out over Jerusalem, thinking about what we’ve built as a people and what it has cost. My great-grandparents were murdered in Auschwitz. I felt the weight of that tragedy and deep pride in our resilience — how strong we’ve become, and what we continue to endure.
Israel is a complicated place. You feel the pain walking down the street — posters and stickers everywhere with names of the fallen. But it’s also full of life. The hospital was overflowing with pregnant women, children in tow. It felt like people were choosing life. It was deeply inspiring.
One thing did surprise me. I visited Israel a year ago, and there was yellow everywhere — hostage posters, ribbons, empty chairs, even painted parking spots. This time, it was different. The urgency wasn’t visible in the same way. The pain is still there, but it feels internalized now. It was heartbreaking to realize how accustomed we’ve become to the idea that we have hostages. I don’t think Israel will be at peace with itself until they are freed. It’s an open wound.
And the trauma is constant. Just two days after we flew out, the airport was bombed. Seeing images of the very place you just stood being attacked — that’s a visceral reminder that this is a nation living in trauma.
You asked what gives me hope. For me, it’s the next generation — and the spaces where they connect deeply to Jewish identity. I’m vice chair of a Jewish summer camp, and when I visit, especially on Shabbat, it’s incredibly moving. I see the young leadership — their deep commitment to Judaism, to Israel, and their boundless ruach (spirit). I remember being there on Shabbat afternoon as they sang and prayed for a former camper who was injured in the war. That deep connection, the pride, the care — that’s what sustains us.
I believe deeply in informal Jewish education. School matters, but camp is where pride takes root. That’s true for North American youth, but for real inspiration, look at Israeli youth. What they’ve endured and how they’ve risen — what they’ve sacrificed — no one should have to do that. And yet, they carry themselves with strength and conviction. That gives me hope. When I think about whether today’s Jewish kids will be okay, even if they face bias from their future bosses or hatred online, I think: yes — if they’re grounded in who they are, they’ll get through it.
Something else I find inspiring is speaking with and mentoring Jewish high school students, university students, and professionals. If someone reading this wants the youth of their community to hear from an Orthodox Jew who’s also an executive in the corporate world, email me. Let’s talk. [Email office@bronfman.org if you would like to be put in contact with Rena.]
I used to speak more in business contexts — marketing, leadership, and large, prestigious audiences. But these days, the most meaningful talks are the Jewish ones, the more vulnerable spaces. I recently did an “Ask me anything“ session with a high school of just seven Orthodox girls who didn’t fit into other schools. We spoke about career paths and what it’s like to skip a free Taylor Swift concert because it falls on a Friday night. That conversation mattered. That’s where I want to be.
