When this email landed in our inbox, it struck a chord with everyone who read it. The ensuing conversation evolved into this piece 

Icome from a typical, balabatish kind of family who always emphasized frumkeit.

In high school and seminary, I grew a lot on my own and developed an extremely close connection with Hashem. When I came home from seminary, davening became a bit harder for me, with my new schedule of college and work. But I always davened.

Then I got married, and it got a bit harder. But I always davened. Then I could barely get out of bed for the first few months of my pregnancy — and I never davened. Nothing.

That just started my routine of no davening. At all. I’ve since had multiple children, a few years have passed, and davening is still not a part of my routine. I’m married to a very serious ben Torah who’s learning in kollel and who doesn’t seem to be leaving it any time soon (if at all). I look very frum and I act the part, I live simply in Eretz Yisrael so that we can live a Torahdig life, and I’m proud of all this… but as to davening, nothing.

I feel I have lost my connection with Hashem. I can’t reach out to anyone, can’t even tell my husband or friends. Nobody would even believe me. Why does everyone around me seem to make it work, davening twice a day, even with kids and work and everything else? Even on days that I have nothing better to do, davening just doesn’t come to mind. Every now and then I get inspired from something, and decide I’ll start with brachos. Just say brachos this week. Day one, it works. Day two, maybe. Day three, I don’t even remember that I wanted to do this.

I feel totally lost in my connection, and yet, I want to have it so, so badly. I teach my kids all about it! But I just can’t seem to find it for myself.

It’s not that I forget. Sometimes I remember that I want to say brachos, but since I’m not really interested, I don’t carry through. And on those days I feel motivated to daven more of Shacharis, I start with brachos, and then feel depleted at the end. Like, I just don’t want to say any more. I did enough.

I’m a “normal,” happy young mother, and I can’t imagine that I’m really the only one with this problem. But I can’t open up about this. I’m too embarrassed.

I would love to hear from other people — who’ve been there, who’ve been through it — who can tell me how I can get past this.

How I can recapture that lost connection?

Search for Serenity

Shevy Levine

The road to motherhood feels like one long, extended prayer. Even throughout those days when I can’t bear to look at the pages, one tefillah or another is always on my lips. There is so much to ask for, such acute desperation and searing awareness. There is only Him. We need Him. It’s that simple, really.

And then, at long last, Baby comes along — and our world turns around in the most beautiful and wondrous of ways. We are so ready, so eager to fall into parenthood. Every aspect of motherhood is an adventure, and I celebrate each one. Late-night cuddles, first sniffles and fevers — I am determined to embrace every second. And well, if my tefillah takes a backseat, isn’t that just another facet of my newfound role? It’s almost a badge of honor — sooo busy, no time to daven — just another sign that I’ve finally arrived.

True, Mizmor l’Sodah is always on my lips. And the tears I shed at lichtbentshen can put any Yiddishe mamme to shame. As for formal tefillah, I console myself by throwing my efforts into other areas of avodas Hashem. A beautiful Yom Tov table. Supporting my husband. Chesed. Motherhood, of course.

But a hole begins to surface where connection once lived, and a sense of searching takes root where serenity once grew. I start feeling unmoored, but I have every speech on motherhood running a counteroffensive. Every halachic discourse on women and tefillah can explain my newfound approach. I quiet the voices, distract myself, and keep moving on. And yet....

I sometimes wonder why new habits are considered hard to form. Some are, I suppose. But clearly, some aren’t. Time passes, and before I know it, I’m hardly davening at all. I blush when my husband shares a Torah thought at dinner, and I can’t recall if I’ve said brachos before I comment. I’m not proud when I realize my siddur was left in the car for a couple of weeks, and I didn’t notice. I hadn’t planned for this change, but it’s here all right, and at this point, I’m too far in to know what to do.