Different beds, different foods, different customs. I navigated strange waters with my family as the compass

We didn’t go to my husband's yeshivah last year.

I was our first time staying home; every year since we'd been married, we stayed in an apartment close to the yeshivah where my husband learns and is on staff.

But last year, I chickened out. When the going gets tough, the weak get running.

Moving out, packing for everyone, bringing linens, going to different people for the seudos (or alternatively, eating in an apartment that's not ours so every course is cause for concern—with me on constant alert for splatters: Stay away from that peach couch!). Our decisions always seemed to be between bad versus worse. It all felt like too much for me to handle.

My husband has been in the same yeshivah for close to a decade. Currently a shoel u'meishiv, he felt that not only was it important for his own ruchniyus, but it was also good for the boys to have him present during the tefillos. And in theory, I agreed. It would be amazing for him, for our family, to be in the yeshivah, surrounded by people who are focused on avodas hayom, inspired by the rosh yeshivah's tefillos. It’s my husband's comfort zone.

But it's not my comfort zone, not in the least. And for seven years, I'd pushed myself to go, because I knew it was good for my husband. So despite being a dyed-in-the-wool homebody, who likes my creature comforts in place, every Rosh Hashanah we packed out to a different city, guests in a home and at meals. Different beds, different foods, different customs. I navigated strange waters with my family as the compass.

Last year, the past few weeks leading up to Rosh Hashanah had been a series of unfortunate events. I needed stitches on my finger (courtesy of an Erev Shabbas madness that involved a time-crunch, flowers that needed to be cut, and a serrated knife), my son broke his foot, and I pulled my back carrying said son to the bathroom. Last year, it felt not only past my comfort zone, but in a different galaxy entirely.

It’s standard for the avreichim and their families to travel in. I felt guilty, and tried to psych myself up, to push myself to join the yeshivah. But I really, really, really didn't want to. Shortly before Rosh Hashanah, it dawned on me that I'm not the aishes chayil I thought I was.