I opened Zusha’s Instagram story on Sunday and stopped scrolling.
There was a picture of their candles, glowing softly, with one short caption underneath: Burning the darkness away. I felt moved. I felt angry. I felt inspired. And I felt unexpectedly seen.
I was also struck that the source was not a therapy account; my feed has two categories —- materialism and the heavier stuff. You know, the good stuff; processing trauma, naming pain, unpacking the emotional weight of the world. And yet, there it was. A sentence that named something I was feeling so strongly inside, but couldn’t quite reach or articulate on my own.
“The Zushas” (as I like to call them) have been part of my inner peace journey for years. Their music has accompanied me through moments of grounding, searching, and quiet reckoning. But this felt different. They did it again. They gave me language for an internal experience that felt raw and unresolved.
That caption stayed with me. It made me wonder what G‑d was imagining when He created fire.
Besides for all of the obvious purposes, fire lights up and burns down (often at the same time). It feels like a perfect analogy for pain.
There are days when pain feels heavy and consuming. Days when the burn feels exhausting and unfair. And then there are other days when I can see pain differently. Days when I thank G‑d that wounds exist at all. Because pain, when met with care and steadiness, can become a signal for change. A force that pushes us toward growth, healing, and a healthier future for ourselves and for those we nurture.
Holding both of these truths at once is not simple.
Pain is excruciating.
And pain is powerful.
Managing that tension of allowing pain to be both unbearable and meaningful at the same time, is something I believe we all struggle with, again and again. Burning the darkness away feels like a resting place for the game of tug of war that pain plays. It acknowledges the cost; it burns. It hurts. Fighting through pain, trauma, and loss feels wrong and unsafe much of the time.
And yet, that very burn is how we move through darkness in this world.
If we can find ways to stay with the pain while it burns — not drowning in it, not rushing to escape it, but tolerating it with infrastructure that can hold it, something begins to shift. If we can sit with it long enough to reach the other side, the pain changes its shape.
What once felt unbearable can begin to feel different. The pain may still sting, but it no longer overwhelms. It’s present, but less frightening — because over time, we learn that it doesn’t have the power to break us the way we once feared it did.
This topic comes up often on intake calls with prospective clients. I’m very clear with them: we cannot promise that this work will always leave you feeling “good.” Therapy that is honest and meaningful is often uncomfortable, tumultuous, and heavy. There will be sessions that stir things up rather than settle them.
What we can offer is a genuinely supportive space; a place to enter the pain with care, and to see if together we can find a secure way to tolerate it long enough to hear what it needs to teach us. You won’t always leave feeling better. But you will leave satisfied, knowing that you showed up for a part of yourself that has been waiting — sometimes for years — for your arrival.
Darkness exists for all of us.
And it needs to be met, not avoided.
Chanukah reminds us that light doesn’t argue with darkness. It doesn’t pretend the darkness isn’t there. One small flame simply shows up, steady, flickering, real. And that is enough to change the room.
My hope for you is that one day you feel illuminated by what happened to you. Not because it was good or fair or just. Not because it was deserved. But because you learned how to carry its fire without being consumed by it. You see how what needed to burn down, lit the way for a future that wouldn’t have been possible without the darkness. Then you can begin living the life you have always deserved to have.
Happy Chanukah to you and yours.
— Bassy
Cedarhurst