It was an old pain, from a long-ago traumatic event in my childhood that still wreaks havoc in my relationships

I walked into my bedroom the other night and noticed two pieces of paper lying on the floor. When I picked them up, I saw they were pages three and four of a 35-year-old letter written by my friend Frieda. Frieda’s in Eretz Yisrael, and I haven’t been in touch with her for decades. I wondered how the letter came to be lying on my floor after all these years. I probably should read it, I thought, but I was tired, and I put it on my dresser and went to sleep.

The next morning, old letter forgotten, I went straight to practicing my daily hisbodedus. I closed the light in my room, locked the door, sat down in my designated corner, and started speaking to Hashem. “I’m so grateful for the birth of my healthy new grandchild the previous week,” I told Him. Even though she was born preemie, she was doing well, and I thanked Hashem for the miracle of her birth after almost ten years. Sitting in my secluded corner with no distractions, I really felt the awesomeness of Hashem’s love and kindness in all the blessings He continuously showers upon me.

Then, as I sat there, a pain started tugging at my heart. It was an old pain, from a long-ago traumatic event in my childhood that still wreaks havoc in my relationships. For some reason this ancient pain felt particularly strong on this morning, and I began to cry. Splotchy, red-nosed, gut-wrenching, red-rimmed-eyes crying. The kind of crying you don’t want anybody to see.