The Group Gripe

“Ugh, I really wanted to get here for the chuppah.” I slide into the seat Sori had saved for me, wincing. “I mean, who knows how many of Devora’s friends will be able to make it. They’re all juggling two or three kids already… I wanted to be sure she’d have us. But obviously Nosson picked today to schmooze after Maariv — he says he forgot about the wedding — and that threw the whole evening off.”

“Tell me about it.” Sori rolls her eyes dramatically. “I only got here fifteen minutes ago. I think the kids can sense when I want to make it out, you know? Chana threw a nuclear-level tantrum. I’m amazed the house is still standing.”

“Yeah.” I consider the roll for a minute before deciding to skip washing — seudas mitzvah or no, I just don’t need the carbs — and reach for a salad instead. “Honestly, just making it out during the evening is so impossible, it’s a miracle that I’m here. Don’t ask how I left the kitchen.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” Rikki chimes in. “Sandra didn’t show up today, so my whole day was already thrown off. Yaakov spent the afternoon howling that his throat hurt, so we ran to Urgent Care for a culture, and then, somehow, I needed to throw together supper. My kitchen is a complete disaster, and there’s a zero percent chance Moish will load the dishwasher, let alone sweep. I’m sure it’ll be worse by the time I get home.”

“Oy, how’s Yaakov?” Sori reaches for the Diet Coke. “Sick kids are the worst. Bina and Zevi were both sniffly and red-eyed on Shabbos, and I was just… like, I cannot handle one more kid home sick for another day. I’m pretty sure Mr. Loeffler will fire me if I stay home again.”

“I knowwww, it’s so crazy,” I commiserate. “It feels like every other day, there’s another kid home. And it’s only the beginning of December! Just wait, we’re not even in the thick of flu season yet.”

Sori leans her forehead against her palm for a minute. “Winter. It’s the woooorst. If I ever—”

Her words are abruptly cut off by the band striking a chord. It’s the cue to gather near the doors, where we’ll wave arches back and forth for the next ten minutes as we wait for the chassan and kallah to take their sweet time making an entrance into the hall.

I stand slowly. I’m so happy for Devora, finally getting married at 28, and I’m determined to be there for her and dance up a storm.

But I’m tired and so drained… it’s hard to imagine dancing for ten minutes, let alone two hours. But really, who can expect more at this stage of my life?

A Vent in the System

We’re on day three of the stomach bug when there’s good news and bad news. Bad news: Ruchie’s joined her younger sibling at our home-cum-infirmary. Good news: Ruchie is 16 and only moderately sick, so I can escape for an hour to run errands.

I trudge to my car, feeling like a cartoon character walking in a little black rain cloud. Physically, I’m fine. But after so many days ministering to a revolving door of sick kids, I’m absolutely miserable.

At the fruit aisle, I see Esti, who immediately intuits my distress. “Sori, are you okay?”

With an open invitation to gripe, I provide a detailed synopsis of the Sick Saga in all its morbid glory. When I get to the part where Dovid rushed, heaving, to the garbage can, only to realize belatedly it was the umbrella holder, Esti’s sympathetic clucking erupts into giggles.

Just then, Chevi approaches. “What’s all the excitement over the bananas?”

“Oy, you can’t imagine the week I’ve been having.” I offer her the abridged version.

“Sori, just be grateful it isn’t bronchitis,” Chevi says. “Just listen to the past two days in my house.” She launches into a description involving nonstop coughing, fever, and frantic visits to Urgent Care.

By now, we’re joined by Leah, whose baby is recovering from RSV. The next 15 minutes morph into a full-blown kvetch fest opposite the melons.

Eventually, Esti reminds us that we came to shop, not vent, and we scatter to finish our respective grocery lists. But as I load the car, I catch myself humming. To my surprise, my mood has significantly improved, and I feel recharged and more energized to deal with my sick kids back home.

I guess there’s nothing like a pity party to get those endorphins flowing.

Okay, we can see the writing on the wall by now. Chronic complaining is an addictive, slippery slope. But what are we supposed to do about it? Dina Schoonmaker, noted speaker and veteran educator, tackles the questions we may be afraid to ask

Ripples of a Rant

Dina Schoonmaker

My husband hardly ever complains to me, while I start most conversations with at least one kvetch. Is he just more content than I am?

What is it about women that seems to invite complaining?

The Gemara in Maseches Sanhedrin teaches, “Adam asui shelo l’hasbia es atzmo.” By nature, we avoid showing we are satisfied. The Alter of Kelm explains that this tendency issues from the fear of losing something we have. If I tell someone that my baby sleeps through the night, she may assume I’m well-rested and ask me to watch her child so she can rest, too. If I disclose my financial success, someone may ask me for a loan. It is the fear of losing something that drives us to conceal our satisfaction.

Sometimes, we’re afraid of losing the asset itself if we discuss it openly. For example, if I mention that the house has been clean and tidy instead of complaining about the mess, my husband may tell me to cancel the cleaning help!

Other times, we fear inviting ayin hara, indirectly causing our good fortune to diminish. And sometimes, we don’t share our satisfaction because we fear we’ll lose our friends.

According to author Debra Tannen, one of the crucial differences in male and female communication styles is how they express satisfaction. Men, who prioritize status over connection, will engage in “one-upmanship” as a means of asserting their superiority over their peers. “You bill $300 an hour? Well, I bill $400 an hour.”

Women, who prioritize connection over status, will engage in “one-downmanship” to reduce feelings of competition and make a safe space for another. “You think your house is a mess? Well, you haven’t seen mine yet! Your kid did that in public? Well, let me tell you what mine did last week!”

When we engage in one-downmanship, we reduce barriers of fear and shame that may alienate our peers and replace them with a sense that “it’s safe to be my friend.” This preserves our principal communication goal: connection. But it also lays the foundation for kvetching.

There is a deeper element to this tendency. Drawing on the Maharal, Rav Simcha Cohen explains the mechanics of connection. Rachamim is the “koach hamekasher shebanefesh,” the unifying attribute of the nefesh. When you complain to me and I respond with rachamim, I migrate from my experience to yours, comprehend your reality, and import it to my own lived experience. This forms a connection between us. So women, who naturally seek koach hamekasher more than men, will more readily engage in complaining.

A woman will share how difficult something is in order to elicit the response of, “Oh, that must be so hard for you!” In general, we don’t find men congregating outside of shul saying, “Oh, I feel so bad for you,” but this is a common refrain for women sitting together in the park.

We seek connection, and we get it by evoking sympathy through complaining.

I don’t think I complain about inconsequential things; everything I gripe about really is an issue! Why should I accept the things in my life that aren’t going right?

When we feel entitled to something — whether it’s a good night’s sleep, a perfect spouse or disposable income — and our entitlement doesn’t match our reality, we will likely complain about our perceived lack. The more we expect, the more we’ll complain when our expectations aren’t actualized.

Rav Wolbe calls this phenomenon “tofaat emtzah chayim,” the midlife phenomenon. He explains that, from the time we are born, we are constantly receiving from others. However, at this stage, we are cognitively incapable of appreciating what we are given. By the time our cognition is developed enough to understand what we have, we’re so habituated to things going our way that we’ve lost the critical window to appreciation.

Our tendency toward entitlement is not a lost cause, though; it’s the starting point for avodah, spiritual work. Although our instinctive response in a given situation might be to complain about what went wrong, we can choose to see it differently. Instead of harping on the bad, we can zoom out of the distressing situation in the present to see it in the context of our lives. In the greater scheme of things, does this event really rank?

I had a third-grade teacher who told me, “Your Modim should always be more passionate than your Shema Koleinu.” Shema Koleinu is generally a tefillah for all the things going wrong, while Modim is for all the things that are going right — and there are so many things on this list!

I feel like I’m wired to complain. Is there any redeeming worth to being a complainer?

Complaining can come from having an ayin ra’ah, being hyperfocused on the negative aspects in life. This may actually be rooted in an organic part of our personality. The Orchos Chaim L’haRosh teaches, “Darkam shel habriyos l’ha’alim hatovos u’legalos haraos,” that man’s nature is to overlook the good and notice the bad.

Hashem imbued us with the tendency to ignore the good in favor of homing in on what isn’t right in our life. Perhaps it’s a protective measure — to ensure we notice problems and address them. When strolling in a garden, it’s nice to notice the beautiful flowers blooming, but it’s imperative to notice if a poisonous snake is hiding in the shrubbery.

Though we have this inclination to pick out the negative in a situation, we are not absolved from working to overcome this tendency.

Does Hashem really care if I complain, assuming it’s not lashon hara or rechilus?

“Kol ha’oseik b’Torah ugemilus chasadim umispallel im hatzibbur, maaleh ani alav ke’ilu peda’ani mibein umos haolam. (Berachos, 8a) All who engage in Torah and lovingkindness, and daven with the public, I consider it as if they have redeemed Me from the captivity of the nations.”

What does it mean to release Hashem from the captivity of the nations?

The Alter of Kelm explains that Hashem is a meitiv; He wants to give us good and to nurture us. But of the billions of people in the world, how many people actually attribute His nurturing to Him? Most take what they can get without attributing it to a Giver, and of the few who do recognize that there is a Giver, most attribute it to a foreign deity. As a result, His goodness is somewhat shackled because it does not nurture the recipients nor strengthen their bond with Him.

When we, Klal Yisrael, become more mindful of all Hashem gives us, we release Him from these shackles.

Imagine a mother who wants to give her kids a wonderful experience, so she plans a fabulous Chol Hamoed trip. Over the course of the trip, some of the kids fight over who sits near the window, some gripe about the long lines, and the rest don’t express how much they’re enjoying themselves. At the end of the day, one child says, “Mommy, thanks so much for such a wonderful day, we really see how much you love and care about us.”

This child has just redeemed the mother. She isn’t an event coordinator or a party planner; she simply loves her children and wants to nurture them. And when someone receives and acknowledges her love and nurturing, her motives have been validated.

When we reflect on what Hashem has given us and both appreciate and feel nurtured by it, we are redeeming Hashem from the multitudes of non-Jews who fail to do the same.

I’ve noticed a pattern in my marriage — whenever I start complaining to my husband, he gets sidetracked and doesn’t hear me out. I’m starting to feel that he’s not really empathizing with how hard certain parts of my day are.

While a woman may complain as a way to connect with our spouse, our spouse experiences it differently. A man is wired to be a mashpia, to influence and impact, and his wife’s dissatisfaction engenders deep discomfort for him. Sometimes, a husband will alleviate these feelings of discomfort by trying to solve the source of her unhappiness. “How about if I do the dishes?”

However, when a less self-aware spouse hears his wife complaining, an internal distress alarm sounds: “I’m so uncomfortable. I have to get away!” Thus, our kvetch session with our husband may unceremoniously end with him running out to Maariv. We are left feeling misunderstood as he races away to avoid feeling any inadequacy.

His reaction to our complaining is a communication-style mismatch. If we want to avoid this, we have to work with his nature as a mashpia by making him part of the solution.

One way to do this is by sharing positive things with our spouse as well. “Today there were no lines at the supermarket — I was in and out in no time!” When we express happiness and satisfaction with life, his mashpia mechanism isn’t activated and he doesn’t automatically take the conversation as an indictment of his failures.

Instead of launching into a full-blown rehashing of the day’s woes, we can say, “I had a really hard day, but now you’re here, so it’s already much better,” or, “I had such a crazy day, can you tell me something funny so I’ll feel better?”

Our husbands fare better when they become part of the solution.

But does complaining really affect us on an emotional level? Is complaining really not in our best interest? Sarah Chana Radcliffe, M. Ed., C. Psych, tackles the emotional ramifications of chronic complaining

The Cost of Kvetching

Sarah Chana Radcliffe

O

ne of the most popular mind games  that Eric Berne describes in his book Games People Play is called “Ain’t It Awful.” The “Ain’t It Awful” game fulfills many psychological objectives. It is a two-player game involving someone who complains (about the kids, the spouse, the neighbors, the job, the state of the world, the cost of living, etc.) and a listener. In some versions of the game, the listener tries to help the complainer resolve complaints, while in other versions, the listener complains along with the complainer.

In the first version, the complainer rejects all of the listener’s suggested solutions, saying things like, “No, that won’t work because…” or, “No— I tried that already,” or “Yes, but then this new issue would be a problem…” and so on. The unsolvable problem transforms the complainer to helpless victim, which removes their stress of having to address life’s problems. At the same time, it confirms the complainer’s “script” about how impossible everything is, reinforcing his or her core identity (“There’s no point…”, “I can’t do anything about it…”, “It’s always like this.”).

Complaining helps strengthen one’s negative beliefs while garnering a bit of temporary sympathy from the listener. Anyone who has to regularly listen to a complainer tends to feel drained and annoyed, since it seems that the person isn’t really interested in fixing anything.

In the second version of the game, the listener joins in with statements like, “You think that’s bad? Let me tell you about my experience with the passport office.” The listener loves the complaining process just as much as the complainer does, and the two of them bond over the awful state of the world. Complaining can bring people together, validate their suffering, and provide attention, support, and sympathy.

These benefits, however, are far outweighed by the negative side effects of indulging in this habit. Research shows that frequent complaining increases sympathetic nervous system arousal, leading to increased cortisol, increased anxiety, increased activation of the stress response, increased depression, decreased cognitive function, and increased corresponding health risks.

Chronic complaining worsens mental and physical health, but complaining that is infrequent and brief can provide a bit of stress release. In fact, complaining that leads to active problem-solving is actually beneficial. Writing out complaints (e.g., journaling) is an effective way to resolve feelings, issues, and problems while avoiding the negative side effects of complaining orally.

Complaining to a friend who refrains from joining in or providing excessive sympathy — a friend who steers you toward finding solutions — can be helpful on an occasional basis. But friends who are overly sympathetic unintentionally reinforce a habit that can be destructive and addictive.

Avoid sympathizers, check your motivations, and choose problem-solving, gratitude, and optimism over complaining to experience health and happiness!

SO

there’s definitely a place for productive complaining, when it’s in the right setting and with the right intentions. But is social complaining really an issue? If a group of women gather in the park and do some venting together as a social exercise that they enjoy — and it does make them feel better and cope better — is there really a reason to stop?

Yes, says Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger, though he takes a humorous approach at first. “There’s a well-known joke about three Jewish women eating lunch at a restaurant in New York. After overhearing the women kvetching about the food, the service, and their husbands, the waiter approached them and asked, ‘Is anything all right?’ ”

But kvetching is born out of a sense of entitlement, he says. It creates an expectation that everything is supposed to be perfect, and puts pressure on everyone present to kvetch. “Otherwise, they’re at risk of being viewed as losers who are satisfied with something less than perfect.”

But realistically, Rav Neuberger says, complaining isn’t just an ugly middah. It can easily migrate into outright issurim. “Say a wife complains to her friends about her husband… she is speaking lashon hara about her spouse. There is rarely any toeles in doing so other than kvetching.” While there are times when those reports about a spouse can achieve a real benefit, there are several qualifications that must be met. “Talking indiscriminately is never allowed.”

So what are the qualifications in these “Hilchos Kvetching?” Rav Neuberger ticks off four points. The report must be only to the person who can actually provide the benefit, like a rav who can intercede with the husband. The report can’t be exaggerated, and the complainer must only complain for the sake of toeles and not to make the other person look bad. Finally, the report shouldn’t do more damage than what is called for.

“The Chofetz Chaim (hagahah to 10:14) does allow a person suffering emotional pain to relieve his pain by speaking to a sympathetic ear — but caution must be applied before using that heter,” Rav Neuberger explains. The sufferer has to speak to someone responsible who will provide some understanding but won’t believe the information as fact. Just chatting about your spouse to your friends isn’t included in this heter. “Additionally, if possible, the listener should delicately try to paint the spouse in a positive light.”

In other cases, one might feel the desire to complain about an establishment or post a negative review. “That’s lashon hara on steroids,” Rav Neuberger says. “Very often, the report is completely subjective, the damage far exceeds what is called for, and the report isn’t specific to those who may need the information.” Complaining on social media, he says, is lashon hara that can rarely be undone.

We are often tempted to turn our flaws into praiseworthy attributes without changing our behavior. I’m just complaining so others aren’t jealous of my life! I’m protecting myself from ayin hara when I tell someone how my life looks perfect but my husband is never home, my kids are crazy, my in-laws are impossible to deal with…. It’s another mind game, this one played by ourselves, with ourselves. And the lashon hara involved can’t be shrugged off.

And if your complaints aren’t lashon hara, just kvetches about everyday inconveniences? Rav Neuberger leaves us with a reminder. “You are not so great that you have to make yourself small.” A much better protection against ayin hara is to truly acknowledge that whatever you have is a gift from Hashem, and that you do not “deserve” anything.

“When that attitude comes across in your speech and body language,” says Rav Neuberger, “everyone will fargin your bounties — just as you will fargin theirs.”

One mother’s reckoning with how complaining reshaped her child’s experience.

Saboteur

Bashie Lisker

F

rom the start, I was unhappy with Shira’s school. I didn’t like it when I attended it, and it had gotten worse by the time my only daughter was enrolled there. The class she was in didn’t have enough local girls, and the preschool morah was too strict, not nurturing enough for Shira. When I called the principal about Shira’s issues with the morah, I felt as though my concerns were being waved aside, left unheard.

“She talks about all these girls,” I told my husband, Avi, one night. “But no one ever invites her for playdates. It’s just such a snobby class. Do you think it’s because they’re from the other neighborhood?”

There was just so much that the school was doing wrong. “The school lunches aren’t nutritious,” I complained to my sister. “Shira barely eats anything, and then she’s starving at the end of the day. And they send the girls out when it’s too cold to play. The morahs would rather have their break on the playground over teaching their class.”

Calls from the morah weren’t helpful. I was left with the sense that the morah didn’t understand Shira or want to work with me at all.

As the years went on, things didn’t get better.

“The girls are so cliquey and petty,” I vented to my mother when she asked Shira about third grade. “And the teacher moves too quickly through math, so Shira’s totally clueless before tests. It’s just not a good fit for her.”

My mother suggested applying for services. But when I tried to ask Shira’s teacher about it, she shut me down. “She’s doing well,” she assured me. “She’s well liked and academically strong.”

But it didn’t feel like that, not when Shira would talk about being left out at recess, maybe even bullied. I believed it. I did my best to talk to the mothers at school events.

“It’s just such an inconvenient time for working mothers,” I said to Leah Kahan, tugging at my dress. “And I don’t know why they insist on doing resin. It’s messy and never turns out nice anyway.”

“Esty loves her resin mezuzah,” Leah said, patting her daughter’s shoulder. “I thought it was gorgeous.”

“Not Shira’s. When we left it on the table after the event, one of the maintenance workers must have moved it, because it dried at a slant. And we paid $45 for this event!” I couldn’t believe it. Shira’s lip quivered.

“Oh, there’s Rachel. Nice talking to you.” Leah disappeared, as usual. I never got very far with her — or any of the other mothers — without them dodging conversation to speak to their friends. They were just like their daughters.

I considered moving Shira out of the school, but there weren’t better options. Of the other two local schools, one wasn’t yeshivish enough, and the other was new and beset with financial difficulties. Shira and I were stuck with this Bais Yaakov, where I’d never really wanted to send her in the first place.

Then came the nightmare that was Shira’s fourth grade.

When Shira ran into the kitchen after her first day of school and announced her teacher’s name, my jaw dropped. “Not Mrs. Schultz! How is she still there? She made my life miserable in elementary school.”

Shira looked alarmed. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Avi said lightly.

“It’s absolutely that bad. Mrs. Schultz hated me. She was crazy strict, and she was harshest with the kids who couldn’t keep up. What’s she going to do to Shira?”

I broached her issues with Mrs. Schultz, with the hanhalah, who were apologetic but didn’t think it was a good idea to switch Shira to the other class. “It’s a weaker class, and Shira’s so well established in this one,” the principal informed me. “She’ll thrive with Mrs. Schultz.”

But as always, the school didn’t understand Shira or even Mrs. Schultz. “She gives too much homework,” I told my sister, who also had Mrs. Schultz, at the Shabbos table. “The girls have also been bullying Shira.”

“Our sweet little Shira?” My sister looked stunned. Shira just ate challah, her face limp and sad. She was breaking down, bit by bit, the pressures of school too much.

“Oh, yes. There was an incident this week — she wanted to play a game during recess and the other girls wouldn’t let her join. We tried reaching out to one of the nicer girls, but she turned down a sleepover invite. Again. And Shira says there are so many tests, so much homework — it’s too much for a girl like Shira to handle.” I wrapped my arm around her. I could see the tears in her eyes, not for the first time since we first discussed this. Shira was so sensitive, so gentle, too fragile for Bais Yaakov. And no one at school seemed to care.

Eventually, she began waking up sick. The thermometer never quite backed up Shira’s assertions, but it didn’t make a difference. Shira refused to go to school. She spent her days at home with the housekeeper, reading and playing through the day. If anyone mentioned school to her, she shut down. I had no idea what had changed; Shira had never been happy at school, but she had been willing to go.

After several weeks of absences, I was called in for a mandatory meeting with the principals and the teachers. Before I left that morning, I tried pushing Shira one more time. “I don’t understand what changed. You used to love school.”

Shira shook her head. “I hate it. I hate school!” she wailed. “Everyone hates me there, and I feel so stupid all the time, and Mrs. Schultz is so mean to me!”

My heart ached for my daughter. Armed with this new explanation, I headed to the meeting and relayed Shira’s woes.

But Mrs. Schultz looked genuinely bewildered at the assertions. “Shira’s an A student,” she said. “Didn’t you see her report card?” I had seen it, but I hadn’t believed it, not when the school knew my concerns and were trying to assuage them.

“No,” Mrs. Schultz said to my retort. “She’s near the top of the class. And she’s very popular in her chevreh.” She listed off girls whose names I’d heard before, girls Shira usually spoke about positively. Then she claimed that there hadn’t been a single incident with Shira all year where she’d been scolded or disciplined, and the principal backed it up.

“When a girl’s reports are so different from her lived reality,” the principal said delicately, “it’s usually because a friend is reinterpreting what’s happening for her.”

But I couldn’t think of a single friend of Shira’s who would have filled her mind with all that negativity. Who would have complained so much about the academics and the social situation and the teacher that it would have so broken my daughter.

No one.

No one except for me, tearing down every single bit of Shira’s schooling as harmful and unsatisfactory, until Shira had begun to believe it herself.

Had I sabotaged my daughter’s school experience?

“You had a hard time in school,” my sister told me gently that night. “Maybe you’re… projecting, just a little bit.”

There was no way. I wasn’t the root of Shira’s issues. I couldn’t be. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how quickly I had defaulted to complaints. Loud, public complaints — about the girls, about the classroom, about the school and the way that they pushed the girls too hard. Every time Shira couldn’t do a homework problem, it launched me into a rant about the stresses on the students. Every time Shira mentioned playing alone or a disagreement with a friend, I would find myself complaining to Avi or my neighbors about how snobby the girls were. Always within Shira’s earshot. Always, until Shira had internalized it all.

I had done this to her.

And now, Shira wouldn’t go back.

Not unless I could somehow undo the damage.

I started small. “If you look for the positive first, there’s no space for complaining,” Avi advised me. So when a friend called to schmooze with Shira, I would gush about how much the girl missed Shira, how special Shira must be to her. When Mrs. Schultz sent schoolwork home and Shira completed it, I rushed to praise her for her work, to mention how Mrs. Schultz knew that Shira was a top girl who could handle being away.

It all felt fake and artificial. I didn’t believe a word I said. But Shira did, and slowly, gradually, she made her way back to school, with much praise and encouragement.

And slowly, gradually, I felt this shift in myself. I still didn’t agree with school policies or like the principal. I didn’t start seeing my years in school through fresher, more generous eyes. But I did find that I was just less unhappy, somehow. There had been this buzzing, ever-present frustration in my head that I’d never registered until it was gone, a stress that came with that constant urge to complain.

I felt like a more pleasant person, someone people genuinely liked, and even Shira’s friends’ mothers stopped looking like they wanted to escape when we’d talk. I praised the decorations at an event, and Leah Kahan looked pleasantly surprised. “Oh, those were actually my idea,” she told me. And then, in the same breath, she said, “Why don’t you send Shira over tomorrow after school? Esty is always talking about playing with Shira.”

Something had unlocked between us, had created an accord I’d never quite found with the mothers. When Shira smiled, I learned to savor it instead of looking for all the reasons why she might have frowned.

And most of all, I felt free — free of a prison of my own making, like I’d finally given myself permission to enjoy the world around me in its best iteration.

And, of course, my beloved daughter.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 973)