“The weight lifts when someone else says, ‘I also feel that way. You’re not alone’ ”

We Shouldn’t Need This Service [On Your Mark / Issue 981]

I found the On Your Mark about Chana Malka Klein’s work doing medical shidduchim depressing, bordering on horrifying. The very first paragraph mentioning the impetus for her beginning her work describes that: “I was one of the few people in the world who knew that behind the perfection lay a secret medical condition.” (Emphasis mine.)

Tzniyus and privacy are special, beautiful traits that should be lauded. They help define where the healthy boundary is between you and everyone else. Secrecy should be relegated to surprise parties and espionage. Secrecy means there is something that needs to be hidden because it’s shameful. (Or dangerous, if you’re an enemy agent or a family of Anusim).

These cases are so secretive, so horribly shameful, so absolutely forbidden for anyone to know about that Mrs. Klein doesn’t go to vorts in case someone thinks she made the shidduch and so it’s a medical one! Why such an extreme need to hide this information?

There’s never anything shameful about a challenge given by Hashem. Did these young people ask for their conditions? Do something to deserve them? Commit a crime to earn them? Why should they be so concerned with hiding it?

But it was the second sentence in the piece that delivered the gut punch: “She could live a perfectly normal, healthy life, be married and have children, but if anyone found out, no shidduch would get past round three.”

Whyever not? What is wrong with us?

The article, unfortunately, does not specify which conditions, but after 30+ years in seminary chinuch, meeting 18- and 19-year-old girls on the cusp of shidduchim, I’m familiar with a long list of possibilities. While there are some conditions that are life altering in profound ways, many are not. If a boy or girl is able to live such a successful life that they outwardly appear to be a wonderful catch, why on earth aren’t they? Why the need for a special shadchan and secret shidduchim because they need some medication? A few medical checkups a year? Some slight modifications to their daily life a spouse could adjust to?

It shouldn’t be news that in every relationship there will be things to adjust to. Life will always provide challenges, and completely unforeseen medical complications are very likely to appear at some point. It’s almost comical to say no to the only ones you can know about in advance!

In many, many cases these men and women lead lives that are boringly similar to those without medical conditions. Are we saying no to these shidduchim out of genuine concern for our children? Or are we afraid of stigma touching us? In the vast majority of cases, if parents viewed these medical cases the way Chana Malka Klein does — first as people — our children would discover a wonderful spouse they could build a wonderful life with.

I applaud Chana Malka Klein for the service she provides. I mourn the fact that we need it.

Penina Steinbruch

Where’s the Empathy? [Real Life / Issue 981]

This story of a young divorced woman wishing the community would support her like they supported her widowed friend made me sad, but it also made me deeply unsettled about what’s happening in our community. I can’t help but feel that we’re missing the point. I’m 19 years old and divorced, with three divorced friends.

Why is this becoming so common?

Why are so many young people carrying this kind of pain?

Instead of asking those questions, why is the conversation so often centered around gossip and judgment?

There are women with full lives — children, grandchildren, decades of experience — who somehow have time to discuss how my life fell apart, piece by piece. Where is the instinct to reach out? To offer support? To daven? To show compassion instead of curiosity?

People are hurting. Deeply. And in many ways, we’re failing each other. My story isn’t gossip. It’s my life. No one can truly understand this kind of pain unless they’ve lived it. So choosing sides, speculating, and adding judgment to an already overwhelming nisayon only deepens the wounds.

I appreciate the awareness this article brings to the reality of divorce and grief. But awareness must lead to empathy. We need less commentary and more care. Less discussion and more dignity. Our pain isn’t a topic of conversation — it’s something we wake up to and carry every single day.

Name Withheld

Don’t Pull the Meraglim Card [Inbox / Issue 981]

It was interesting to read the Inbox letters responding to the article about young couples/families living and settling in Eretz Yisrael, and how the conversation turned into one about how bad it is to criticize Eretz Yisrael, comparing it to the Meraglim. I find it interesting because in the time of the Jewish people in the Desert, Moshe had direct nevuah from Hashem and promise of Hashem’s protection. Nowadays, plenty of poskim hold that while it is praiseworthy to live in Israel, and perhaps to consider/try to move there, if someone will suffer significant loss in terms of chinuch/raising children, Torah learning, or parnassah (not to mention your own emotional well-being), it’s not an obligation to move to Eretz Yisrael.

Obviously, this conversation needs to be done with sensitivity, love, and respect toward Eretz Yisrael and what it means to us as the Jewish people. It’s not carte blanche to disparage Eretz Yisrael. But I don’t see the problem with mature discussion about the cost/benefits of a couple starting off far away from home, or the real issues that come up with raising American-born children in Israel.

Pulling the Meraglim card as a way to quiet beneficial discussion will only end up harming couples/families who end up feeling shamed into making a costly move that wasn’t the right choice for them. And perhaps, those that are pro-aliyah can listen with understanding about the real issues and try to think of solutions to help make the transition smoother.

My own experience is that I moved to Yerushalayim with my husband and a few young children, so I see both sides of the coin. There are real life-altering and identity challenges with far-reaching consequences to consider; I don’t think it’s a matter of mere comfort. It’s about raising Torah-observant, emotionally healthy Jews, and your own connection to Yiddishkeit (and despite the many opportunities for visiting holy sites, that needs to be weighed against connection to family, rabbanim, mentors, and a community aligned with where you are holding).

There are, of course, real brachos as well with making this move, but I think trying to shut down the conversation is counterproductive to everyone.

Name Withheld

An Outrage [Living Room / Issue 981]

The article about the cost of kiddushim in Lakewood was an outrage and motzi shem ra on the entire Lakewood community. I’ve been in the simchah business for decades and have friends across the economic spectrum. Yet 95 percent of the people I know here in Lakewood make a simple girl’s kiddush in their home with or even without potato kugel.

The sum of $11,000 is about the price of a takanah chasunah. In comparison, a menschlich vort on a budget can be between $3,000-$4,500. We have better priorities than to spend almost triple that on a kiddush for a baby.

Y.H.

Let’s Come Out of Hiding [Words Unspoken / Issue 980]

I’d like to respond to the woman who wrote a letter to her coworker explaining what it’s like to battle anxiety and depression, something no one would ever guess she had.

I know what it is like to feel broken inside. I know because I live it.

I send out a weekly newsletter to thousands of readers, and a couple of weeks ago I wrote a very personal piece in it about how I was struggling emotionally.

Most of the responses to my email sounded something like this: “Wow, you’re so brave for sharing that.” But two comments made me wonder if I’d gone too far. They asked, “Are you being too vulnerable? Did your readers really need to hear all of that?”

I asked myself if I was wrong for writing that email. But after reading your letter, I know it was absolutely the right thing to do. For way too long, I’ve felt alone in my struggles. I would look at other people — at my mentors — and think, They have it all together. They don’t wrestle with the same darkness I do. So I never shared that part of my life with anyone, even when I desperately needed to unburden my soul to a listening ear.

I don’t want to be called brave for expressing my humanness.

I don’t want anyone else to write these words: “I search for others who share my fate. But I can’t find them, for they, too, are in hiding.”

Talking about mental health is in vogue, but only as a general topic. How many people are still afraid to speak about how they really feel, how they’re really doing? I know most people aren’t going to publicly write about their lives the way I do, but wouldn’t it be nice if people felt safe sharing with a friend, coworker, or sibling that they’re not okay?

Let’s all come out of hiding.

Tzaras rabim chatzi nechamah. The suffering of many is half a consolation. The weight lifts when someone else says, “I also feel that way. You’re not alone.”

So let’s be brave and admit to being human.

And to the woman who wrote this letter — I feel that way, too. Know you’re not alone.

Miriam Zeitlin

It’s Too Much These Days [Windows / Issue 980]

I thoroughly enjoyed every word of Brochy Ganeles’s essay. It vividly transported me back to my own childhood, triggering memories of everything from Tamagotchis to Stella d’Oro cookies. Beyond the nostalgia, I deeply connected to the realization of how much freer we were as children compared to my own kids today.

During my childhood summers, our community’s families would head to the countryside. While many parents worked in the city during the day, we kids were largely left to our own devices. Those were, by far, the happiest afternoons of my life — yet any mother allowing the same today might be labeled as neglectful!

Although I likely wouldn’t allow my children the same levels of freedom that I enjoyed, I do sometimes think back to those days wistfully, wishing they could have similar experiences. I believe a large part of today’s more protective parenting stems from the overwhelming availability of global news. Every time tragedy strikes, we hear about it instantly. How can we not be more guarded when we’re constantly confronted with an endless array of dangers?

It used to be that we only heard about and mourned the tragedies within our own immediate circles. Today, every heartbreaking story becomes a headline. While this has a beautiful impact on our nosei b’ol im chaveiro and areivus, it also brings a heavy burden of “TMI” — too much information — and the fear and anxiety that comes along with it. For this very reason, I’ve personally stopped looking at frum news sites; sometimes, protecting our peace of mind is the only way to parent with confidence, to feel safe giving our children as many exhilarating experiences as we can while still adhering to safety guidelines.

A. K.

Intentional not Intuitive [ABY / Issue 979]

I’m writing in response to the article “Build the Foundation,” which argued that eating intuitively can’t be treated like a new diet plan, it’s something learned over time. But intuitive eating presumes that hunger and satiety cues are inherently reliable. For most of us, these signals have been dysregulated by an obesogenic food environment, early-life conditioning, chronic stress, and repeated exposure to hyper-palatable foods. Structure and exercise aren’t antithetical to body trust — they’re prerequisites for creating it, which at that point, isn’t really intuitive but intentional.

Lee Netzky, BCHN, NC

Clinical Nutritionist

Shira Savit responds:

Thank you for sharing your thoughtful reflections. My article wasn’t about defining or debating intuitive eating, but for women who feel discouraged when told to “just trust their bodies,” especially when hunger and fullness cues feel confusing. My focus was on building the foundation that makes listening to the body possible. When consistency, emotional awareness, and small shifts become part of the process, the body’s cues often begin to feel clearer — even in our current food environment. While modern life and the food industry can make hunger and fullness signals harder to read, this doesn’t mean we cannot relearn to trust our bodies. From my experience working in this field for over a decade, I’ve seen women rebuild that trust again and again — regardless of generation, past experiences, or the abundance of food. Structure and routines can be helpful, but they’re tools to support the body in finding steadiness, not the goal itself. Most importantly, we can learn to reconnect with that trust because Hashem has already placed innate wisdom within us. When we create the right foundation, that wisdom can gradually reemerge.

Don’t Shut down the Pipeline [Lifetakes / Issue 978]

I’m sure the Family First staff realizes how powerfully their words impact their readers. (For example, before this past Tishah B’Av, a letter to the editor was published encouraging women to fast just like the Jewish women of past generations who fasted sans electrolyte drinks, etc. That letter completely shifted my slightly panicked mindset, and I had an easy and focused fast.)

The Lifetakes where a mother gets emotional about sending her youngest child on the school bus, but is relieved that now that he’s no longer a baby she’ll have time to daven, worried me for this reason. It almost seemed to be encouraging young Jewish mothers to skip davening, even Brachos! I know we’re all busy, overwhelmed, and sometimes frazzled, but we should never shut down the pipeline of tefillah completely. Believe me, I’ve been through many, many years of hectic mornings as a mother, but not once did I drink my (very necessary) cup of coffee until after davening Brachos and Shema. (In fact, when you printed Rabbi Neustadt’s halachah column that said women are obligated to daven Shemoneh Esreh, I found myself able to sneak in Shemoneh Esreh in as well, such is the power of your magazine!) I hope that we busy mommies can continue to be mechazeik each other to stretch ourselves (not overextend ourselves) during our brachah-filled years.

Name Withheld

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 983)