“Spiritual growth” is a confusing term. Growth is something that can’t be seen, only measured. But what yardstick can measure spiritual growth?

Indeed, our metrics for measuring spiritual growth — even our understanding of what spiritual growth is — develop in surprising ways throughout the course of our lives. We set out to understand what growth and connection to Torah mean to women, and how that understanding develops with time.

In an area as personal as spiritual growth and a woman’s connection to Torah, there will be as many experiences as there are women. Family First spoke to women running the gamut of ages, from families large and small, professional and klei kodesh, in a variety of locales.

Here, the voices of numerous women have been blended to create a mosaic cataloging the thoughts, fears, and hopes common to many women of their decade

Twenties

After having spent most of my life in a classroom, it was a shock to be left to my own devices. At first I really missed the forms of avodas Hashem that I was used to. Working in an office, I lost track of the rhythm of the calendar, and felt so disoriented when I didn’t notice Yom Tov creeping up on me. And then, before I knew it, I had a husband, two babies, and everything was different.

The twenties are, in a way, the decade with the most seismic life changes, the ones that determined my trajectory for the rest of my life.

It starts with entry into real life after years of schooling, the old clich? about going from a life of tests to the tests of life. So many of us start out burning brightly with the ardor of youth, trying not to let the cynics dump cold water on our idealism. In the beginning, it’s relatively easy to stay in touch with mentors, find shiurim, learn with friends.

But spiritual entropy is practically a law of nature, and when you’re not immersed in an environment that actively promotes spiritual growth, it’s easy to falter. In school, I had the luxury of time, but now the demands come thick and fast. Between husband, kids, work — who has time for spirituality? It’s like any other relationship. You can talk about how close you are with someone, but if you never see them or speak to them, the spark will slowly die.

Among my peers, the ones who best sustained that youthful idealism are the ones who locked in their direction by settling into a supportive environment, whether that was a kollel home or a network of like-minded friends who attend shiurim together. By making ruchniyus the core of their identity, they solidified who they were and were less fazed by the bumps in the road.

Those whose ruchniyus was not the cornerstone of their lives acquired a certain jadedness over time, a disappointment with society’s foibles that manifests itself in a disdain for societal standards.

Now that I had two kids, I barely had time to daven. In place of the sefer that I’d reached for on Shabbos afternoons, I just wanted to chill with a magazine. Instead of high-minded pursuits, I was desperate to unwind a little.

I used to feel very bad about that; lately, less so. My definition of spiritual success has begun to change. Before, I was a good girl because I volunteered for chesed organizations, davened twice a day, and wore skirts four inches below my knee. But I’ve started to realize that speaking patiently to my three-year-old despite my exhaustion might be a bigger victory than visiting a nursing home on a Shabbos afternoon.

Although I try to turn on the occasional shiur while I’m cooking or in the car, I’m less inspired, and feel less “holy” than I did four years ago. At the same time, I feel that my growth is somehow more real now.

As meaningful as seminary was, no class can ever really prepare you for life’s curveballs. Even when you’re warned of the challenges you might face, you kind of laugh them off with teenage confidence. I think it’s dawning on all my friends that even regular everyday stuff is harder than we ever anticipated: You may not get married straight off the boat, and shidduchim are going to be the biggest trial of your bitachon that you’ve ever faced. Marriage is a bigger project than any weekly learning session, and that’s even without the really hard challenges like infertility or illness.

Grappling with complex relationships and trying to find a footing in a new reality, some us of have relaxed our standards in some areas. My friends started noticing that some things we learned were black and white are really gray; what we thought was halachah was actually chumrah. I see that some of my friends use these discoveries as license for decline, a sort of permission to cut corners and look for the easy way out when life’s pressures get too intense.

I see snoods slipping back, hemlines creeping up. I know in my case, an increased focus on emunah, parenting, tefillah (the heartfelt, in-the-moment kind, not the shuckling-for-hours kind) also left less energy for caring about every chumrah that seemed to matter so much before. But it’s a slippery slope, because at some point, it’s halachah, not chumrah, we may be disregarding; I try to watch out for that… And I am talking to Hashem more and struggling to master my middos.

Life being cyclical, as I near 30, I’m conscious of a swing in the other direction. While the distractions and stresses of my life may have engendered laxity in some areas, now my oldest is starting to get big enough to notice things, and I’ve started to become much more conscious of what he’s absorbing from watching me.

I’m responsible for this human that I’m putting out into the universe: What messages am I sending him? Does he see a mother who will always take the most lenient approach to hilchos Shabbos because “there’s someone who’s mattir it,” or does he see one who will reach for the phone and clarify what should be done?

I’m also more grounded because of my kids — I’ve got a Shabbos Tatty bringing that atmosphere into my home, parshah questions that clue me in to the week’s leining, and a green, vaguely hill-shaped lump on the table reminding us all that Shavuos is coming.

I entered my thirties with a small family and I’ve barely blinked and now we’re a big family. When did it happen?

Growth used to be about things I could quantify, things I could check off: Shul on Shabbos. A shiur. A hashkafah, even. But in my mid-thirties, I’ve realized that just holding everything together is a Big Deal. My single friends describe their herculean efforts to avoid bitterness, which isn’t something we anticipated when we were in school. For my part, I’d never thought of being a good wife as a religious thing, but it is, it really is. And mothering, of course, is the ultimate test of middos. In seminary I was never seriously tempted to smack one of my roommates, but these days that kind of struggle is commonplace.

There are so many things I want for my kids: middos, emotional health, maturity, and depth. I take parenting classes, try to implement all these great tips and techniques, but I’m slowly learning that the most effective thing I can do for my kids is work out these issues in my own life. If I’m a more thought-out, kinder, more spiritual person, I can hope that they will be too.

I find myself annoyed at a child who won’t share a truck, but how good am I at sharing my space or lending my car? Fixing myself is a whole lot harder than nagging my kids, and even harder than making them elaborate sticker charts, but ultimately it’s the best gift I can give them.

That’s the other thing I’m learning: you can’t control anyone else’s spirituality, not your kids’ and not your husband’s. In our twenties, we made our plans and shared our dreams. We charted our destiny. Then life happened.

My husband left kollel two years ago. It was a tough decision, but once the geshmak faded, he knew it was time to move on. The tools I had were inadequate for the transition.

We’re still struggling to find our place in the community. As soon as your husband is working, people start looking at you differently. I’m not entirely sure why; it’s not like those nine years in kollel vanished overnight. And it’s not like we suddenly have heaps of money — we’re still tight, still paying for those years that my husband wasn’t working or in school for a lucrative career.

Our priorities are the same as they were while my husband was learning, but people judge us now as “working people.” I watch helplessly as public opinion changes from valuing my husband for his success in learning to dismissing him for his mediocre success in making money.

In all the classes about the value of Torah, nobody told me about the inherent value of a Torah home — regardless of the father’s career. I’m still working through the guilt and failure I feel, while at the same time trying to appreciate all the good my husband does.

In school I heard all about sacrificing for a kollel lifestyle, but wish I’d learned more about encouraging a husband who drags himself in bone-tired from a draining workday and falls asleep over his sefer, or one who doesn’t even feel the pull to open it anymore.

With all the blessed craziness that goes on daily in my house, formal tefillah happens rarely. For better or for worse, I’m mostly fine with that. Although I sometimes wonder if my complacency with the status quo is a sign I’ve begun to stagnate, most of the time my rational brain knows that I’m serving Hashem in exactly the way He wants now. But I think it’s important to cultivate that spiritual longing. Even when I’m not feeling it, I try to pick up a siddur when I have a few minutes, if only for my daughter to see that Mommy davens. I hope she’ll absorb my priorities, even if my mind is a racing mess of shopping lists, errands, and doctors’ appointments.

I’ve accepted this as my new normal; I tell myself that there’s no possible way that feeding, clothing, and bathing Hashem’s blessings could possibly be detracting from my spiritual net worth.

And yet... as my oldest grows, even though I still have little kids, there’s this awareness that I won’t always be swamped by tiny people. When I finally have time to daven, 10, 15 years from now, will I know how? Will I want to? Or will my spiritual bank account be empty then, and I won’t know how to fill it?

To deal with these fears, I create my personal life preservers — the things that I hold on to for dear life no matter what. I daven Shemoneh Esreh every day. I feel sure that if I give up on that, I’ll fall off the deep end and won’t ever climb back up.

With all the focus on providing for our families’ material needs, it’s often easy to lose sight of the spiritual. After all, cheesecake is how we teach our kids to love Torah! Respectable clothes build self-esteem! It takes a conscious effort, a constant reevaluating, to keep the means and the end in their appropriate places. I find it helpful to turn on a shiur while baking that cheesecake, because it helps put the mundane efforts into the proper perspective.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a little girl playing dress-up. We’re playing for keeps now. It’s no longer about getting a shidduch or what people think of me. At the end of the day, I stand alone before Hashem, and only my personal connection to Torah will accompany me.

Forties

My forties are turning out to be my busiest decade yet. From the top down: I have aging parents, kids in shidduchim, teenagers, school-aged kids. You know what they say, little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems.

At this point, I don’t even have the luxury of a quiet evening, because once the little ones are in bed, the teenagers need to go shopping, shidduch references need to be checked... my day regularly goes until midnight without a break. Ever-mounting demands of parnassah and community involvement mean my husband is less available, not more, and my kids’ needs are more emotionally draining.

Avodah in a formal sense is basically nonexistent now, but the mantra that gets me through my day is constantly asking myself, “What does Hashem want from me now?” Growth in middos will happen along the way, but it needs to be a conscious decision to continue making the choice Hashem would want. I have a friend who always says, “Well, you’re patient, but I can’t help it, I snap at my kids.” Giving in to what feels natural is not called making a choice! Growth won’t happen there.

I guess the biggest spiritual difference is that for the first time in 24 years, I can daven without checking for a dirty diaper in the room. Yes, that last first tooth is traumatic; that last upsheren is traumatic. Sometimes I wonder if once my little kids are grown up, my life will feel less meaningful, but right now things are such a constant whirlwind that I don’t have to worry about that for a while.

That being said, not having a baby does cause some soul-searching. There’s a bit more breathing room, a bit less of that “he might wake up crying any minute” unpredictability, which gets you thinking — maybe I should open a siddur a bit more, maybe a sefer? For the most part, though, I’d say that my friends are so busy with everything else on their plate that they haven’t even noticed yet that the dynamics of their families have shifted.

Searching for shidduchim for my children also sparks a lot of reflection about my values and the path my life has taken. I entered marriage fiercely determined to support my husband’s learning, and I was sure he would never need to learn how to write a check. For years, when I never did anything spiritual for myself, that was my main source of satisfaction.

Proud as I am of my husband’s success in Torah, and my part in making it happen, I want to give my daughters a greater sense of balance — that together with that value, we have to be sensitive to the overall health and stability of the family, that stretching oneself to the point of exhaustion may not be good for the family in the long run. I want my daughters to know that a healthy home environment and a relaxed mother are as important to consider as the sheer number of hours of learning.

We daven that our daughters merit the indescribable sweetness of a kollel life, but also experience an easier transition if and when the time comes for their husbands to take over the financial reins of the family.

That perspective, being able to take a longer view of life, brings a measure of peace. When a young neighbor was breathless with panic that her toddler might dehydrate, I could calmly remind her that before he dies, he’ll probably faint. Crises become more manageable with the wisdom that time bestows.

Faced daily with vital needs like shidduchim, or watching the gut-wrenching struggles of my adolescent children, the need for tefillah has never been more obvious. There’s so much to daven for, and by now I’ve learned that I have so little control.

The brachos have never been so clear before, and the challenges have never been more enormous.

Fifties

It’s strange to think of myself in my fifties. That’s how old my parents were when I thought they were over the hill. I’ve turned a corner now; I likely have less time left than the time I’ve already lived, and that’s a sobering thought.

Like many of my friends, these days I spend a lot time caring for my mother, who has dementia. It’s hard, learning how to change as relationships change on you. I’m the bubby, and the daughter, and I have to mother my mother, and balance the needs of single kids and married... so many interlocking circles to consider simultaneously.

Although the house is somewhat quieter with some of the kids married and out on their own, those new relationships mean new dynamics I have to learn to navigate, balancing my primal need to help and protect with their need for privacy and space.

Instead of Shabbos and Yom Tov being an oasis of quiet and peace like I’d anticipated it would be, the noise level has actually tripled as several families pack in at the same time. My nerves and my physical strength aren’t what they used to be, either, so it takes a special effort to always be the smiling, welcoming grandmother. With your own kids, you can rely on the fact that they’ll always know you love them, but with kids-in-law a single misstep can be fatal. I want them to come, I want them to feel wanted, I just don’t always want them now.

One of the hardest parts of (grand)parenting is learning to hold my tongue while witnessing my kids interacting with their own. For years, Mommy knew best, but now I’ve been relegated to a quiet observer and dispenser of treats. Not that I envy my kids raising children today. When I brought my kids up, there was good and bad, black and white. They are raising children in a world that is all gray, and a world that has created impossibly high standards. We had it physically harder, but they have it spiritually, intellectually, and emotionally harder.

I’m no longer sleep-deprived like I was for years; this is the time that I can use to chap arein and work on myself. At first it was a little scary, having unstructured time for the first time in years, but slowly you find satisfying ways to fill it. My family’s needs and my work still consume the bulk of my time, but here and there I can go walking with a friend, attend a shiur, take a nap without feeling guilty.

Having teenagers is a great spur to growth. They’re real people that I can talk to, and we can discuss philosophical or mussar-related topics. My kids inspire me daily as I watch them blossom into thinking adults, with the passion and fire of youth. And of course, they try my patience daily. They are teenagers, after all.

Getting back into formal avodah has been challenging. I find that davening a little less, but with kavanah, works better for me now than trying to go back to saying everything I once did. Of course, the pressing needs of shidduchim and other adult concerns help me daven with greater urgency than ever before.

Aside from injecting new life into my tefillos, the range of my experience allows me to find Yad Hashem in my life. With the space of years behind me, I can clearly see how many events that I thought were bad worked out to my benefit, and how Hashem gifted me with matnos chinam when I least expected it. The time my husband was laid off, but then decided to open his own business; the time my son was crushed by a rejection from his mesivta of choice, but then formed a powerful kesher with the rosh yeshivah in his second-choice place.

As my nest empties out, this is a time for easing back into the sort of spiritual pursuits that animated me back in my teens: A more conscious focus on growth. It’s only possible because I maintained a like-minded circle of friends throughout the years. Just like you pick a husband you want to grow old with, I think that when you’re first married, it’s important to try to surround yourself with friends you want to get older with.

As young mothers, we tried to get together to learn every week or two. Even though most of our time was spent filling sippy cups and arbitrating fights, it created a social pressure, a mindset of ruchniyus. Now that we’re older, and slowly starting to have more free time, there’s this expectation that we’ll use it wisely, that we’ll encourage our husbands to go to shiurim instead of taking us to restaurants, that we’ll do chesed rather than go to the mall.

We made small conscious decisions back then, and now years down the line we discovered that we’re on the road heading where we want to go.

Sixties

My daughter told me, bemusedly, about the late-middle-aged couple she’d noticed in a restaurant, sitting in companionable silence the whole time. “Why bother going out to eat if you don’t even talk to each other?” she wondered.

What she didn’t realize is that there is a comfort level you attain after spending years with someone, a comfort that transcends idle chatter or superficial socializing; it’s just about enjoying the other’s company.

When you’re younger, you might be looking at specific templates of avodah, but as you mature in your relationship with Hashem, the communication is on a different level.

It’s an exciting time, a gebentsht time in many ways. At this stage, I can be involved in my kids’ and grandkids’ lives, sharing Yamim Tovim, cooking and baking for them, babysitting for the grandkids, but without the pressure of day-to-day childcare or even older teens’ concerns and shidduchim.

And the newfound freedom! Even though I’ve never been much of a formal davener, there’s an exhilaration that I can finally manage more than just the bare minimum. I can go to shul if I choose, and I appreciate that my knees are working, because not everyone’s are at this age.

It’s the home stretch now. You want to fill your life with mitzvos, but it’s fun and enjoyable at the same time. You can combine the two and it’s mostly good.

It’s also a time that I can renew old friendships, or cultivate new ones. While raising a family, most of us had no time for our own social lives. Relationships take investment, and there’s finally a little space for that.

On the other hand, all this is possible only as long as Hashem gives good health. At my age, everyone starts to have something. You daven that it’ll be something small, but very few of us are as sound as we were even ten years ago.

Along with the sobering realization of our own age, there’s the fact that our mentors are aging, too. My rav retired. He has a capable replacement, but he’s not my rav. I don’t know that I can just go out and find another.

But even with the aches and pains that are starting to creep up on us, the overwhelming emotion isn’t creakiness, but gratitude. When you’re 30, even 40 or 50, you just can’t feel the richness of the gratitude you feel at my stage.

At this point, I’m more sure of who I am. I don’t need to prove myself to anybody. I used to feel pressured by others’ successes — she’s an inspiring teacher but I’m just a secretary, her home is spotless and mine is lived-in — but now I know that that fancy kitchen is not mine, that brilliant child is not mine, and it’s okay. That yields a tremendous sense of peace. I know who I am, where I want to go, and that it’s only by the help of Shamayim that I can get there. And that knowledge makes life a lot easier to handle.

Growth is very small. At this age, one might expect to see obvious results, but that’s not how it works. You don’t get a doctorate in being a wife, or a degree in motherhood. The problems I struggle with are basically the same ones I struggled with 20 years ago, but on different levels. Now, I might still say the lashon hara, but I’ll stop and catch myself sooner. It might not be readily apparent to an outside observer, but it’s also growth.

If I’ve learned one thing in 65 years, it’s that you never know what’s below the surface. There are extraordinary people doing extraordinary things, and it’s between them and the Ribbono shel Olam alone.

Keep Climbing

Why do some people go through life on a constant upward trajectory, while others seem to falter? Miriam Russi Perr, mechaneches and kallah teacher in Brooklyn, argues that the very premise of the question isn’t valid. “It’s not a Jewish question. The greatest victories are private and internal. The only measure of success is: Are you better than you were yesterday?”

Of course, no one can judge another’s success or failure, but an understanding of the process can help us strengthen our commitment to growth.

Rabbi Ari Mintz, menahel of Bnos Chaim Seminary in Lakewood, explains that there are two important factors at play. The ultimate goal of chinuch is to refine your character and strengthen your values so that they can guide you throughout life, as the pasuk says, “gam ki yazkin lo yasur mimenah.” The greater effort you make to shore up your core identity as an eved Hashem, the more steadfast you’ll be when faced with challenges. That’s the intrinsic part.

However, extrinsic influences also have a strong impact. During our school years, we’re surrounded by a powerful support system and constant supervision, all with the express purpose of molding our character.

Once out of school and on her own, someone whose core is less than rock solid may weaken in her avodas Hashem. This can be combated by leveraging either the intrinsic or external forces. On a personal level, a woman should endeavor to fill her spiritual tank with the shiurim or other forms of inspiration she needs to stay strong, says Rabbi Mintz. He quotes the famous mashal of the Vilna Gaon that a pitcher that pours will soon empty, but if the pitcher is constantly replenished, it will overflow into others without being diminished. Likewise, a woman, whose job description is nurturing, needs to fill herself in order to continue giving without being depleted.

At the same time, it’s crucial to set oneself up for success by seeking out environments that encourage spiritual growth. Whether it’s a job in an appropriate environment, choosing neighbors with strong values, or joining a Torahdig shul, it’s the social pressures that are the best predictor of whether a woman will continue to grow, says Rabbi Mintz. “The Rambam writes that a tzaddik gamur who lives near reshaim will become like them. He paskens it — that’s the simple reality.”

Mrs. Perr adds that every woman needs to take responsibility for her own connection to Torah, rather than coasting on her husband’s learning or her kids’ successes. “Women feel their husband’s learning will carry them, but they have to carry themselves. Once a person relies on what her husband or kids are doing for her identity, then any stage that doesn’t match the perfect image will destroy that.”

It’s not possible to totally divest one’s self-image from one’s family, but even while supporting and taking pride in her family’s growth, a woman needs to build her own identity as an eved Hashem.

Mrs. Perr emphasizes that it’s a mistake for mothers to assume that kriah practice and homework help will satisfy their need for spiritual fulfillment. While some women are fulfilled by cooking for their families and taking pride in their progress, most of whom lead busy, multidimensional lives, need to develop a connection to Torah that matches the sophistication we apply to our work, shopping, and secular education. Whether it’s learning from a sefer, dialing in to a shiur, or some other means, each woman should take responsibility for the health of her inner world.

Giving to Grow

According to Mrs. Perr, another important way to maintain a healthy perspective and ground oneself in Torah values is to do chesed “up close.” While giving tzedakah and attending Chinese auctions are laudable, and performing actual hachnassas orchim or bikur cholim is much more challenging while raising a family, she says that the dividends of gratitude and humility are too great to pass up.

“Disconnection warps our values,” says Mrs. Perr. “Your family should feel proud to serve together. You’re not neglecting your kids by doing hands-on chesed: You’re teaching them what’s important.”

Even in busy households, there is often a way to bring the less -fortunate in to experience the warmth of a functional Torah home firsthand. When the children feel like partners in their parents’ hospitality, they can tolerate slight discomfort or make do with a little less. When done with sensitivity and love in the context of a healthy home, that’s chinuch in selflessness.

While we grapple with life’s tests, Rabbi Mintz points out that we can use our own journeys to give our children tools for long-term success, too. While working through our own challenges, we can talk to our children about how we deal with nisyonos. Instead of simply forbidding children from doing things, we can and should explain how a particular pastime is detrimental. The more we model resilience, maturity, and flexibility, the stronger foundations our children will have as they adapt to the ever-changing demands of their lives’ stages.

Whether we do it by actively cultivating our own passion, nurturing our children’s neshamos, or some ever-changing combination of the two, finding the appropriate balance in our service of Hashem is the adventure of a lifetime.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 592)