Superhuman

Unfortunately, there are far too many causes and campaigns for those who are suffering on every level. We could cry endless tears over our personal, communal, and national tragedies, which never seem to have a limit. But in the private space of therapy, a different struggle shows up; I often find myself gently pulling clients away from the woes of the world and back toward their own internal landscape — the private hurts that are so much harder to sit with than someone else’s crisis.

It’s striking how natural it is for us to pour our time, attention, and energy into supporting others (sometimes more easily than tending to our own inner world). 

That “Eishes Chayil” who is always delivering meals, organizing the shul event, collecting for families in need, and answering the panicked phone call from every friend. Or the guy with a high-profile job and a packed schedule, juggling responsibility after responsibility with ease. He manages to sit on multiple boards, support community projects, show up at every siyum, and take every networking call that comes his way. People admire them, respect them, and wonder how they somehow manage to do it all.

We revere these kinds of folk. We call them superhuman, so special, constantly focusing on how much they do for the community. But the notion that our external output is the indicator of our value is a mistake. True strength comes from allowing ourselves the time and presence to nurture our own well-being, our own relationships, and being particular about where we spend our finite resources in this world. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but “Superhuman” isn’t real — and it doesn’t need to be. 

Over the years, both as a therapist and as a human trying to build an empire of my own, I’ve come to appreciate something both simple and surprisingly difficult: accomplishment doesn’t just mean doing everything. It’s in knowing when to stop. When to turn inward. When to recognize that each of us is one piece of a much larger puzzle, and that doing it all often means doing some of it at the expense of what truly nourishes our authentic selves.

Growing up in Bais Yaakov, we were taught that chessed starts at home. It took me years, and becoming a mother to three little ones (while still learning how to respect myself) to understand what that really means. It’s not about minimizing community responsibility; it’s about recognizing that the greatest kindness we can offer the world is to be present, grounded, and emotionally available for the people closest to us.

When our inner world feels shaky, most of us turn toward the places where we naturally shine.
Some women express this through chessed, through creating warmth, order, and support for others. Others channel their strengths into work, friendships, or the home — places where they feel confident and dependable.
Men often do the same. They pour their energy into their careers, into leadership, into the shul or community roles where they feel purposeful and appreciated.
These are not flaws. They’re gifts. The work is simply making sure that the same care we extend outward is also offered inward.

It’s worth pausing here to acknowledge just how admirable these roles are. Caring for others, building, and giving back are beautiful qualities — traits that keep families, shuls, and communities thriving. At the same time, it’s important to recognize that even the most positive efforts can unintentionally be an avenue to avoid sitting with our own vulnerability and unmet needs.

At some point, each of us has to pause and ask the uncomfortable questions:
What are we running toward? And what are we running away from?
Where does our energy go — and what is the cost?

Community thrives when homes thrive. And homes thrive when the people inside them feel seen, valued, and prioritized — not squeezed in between emails, errands, chessed runs, WhatsApp chats, and meetings.

Turning inward is not selfish.It’s responsible. It’s holy. It’s the quiet avodah nobody claps for, but the one that actually sustains a family.

We’re not meant to operate at a superhuman pace. Even the most capable among us need rest, need help, need emotional space to breathe and reflect. The men and women who seem to handle everything effortlessly are often the ones who need that space most desperately.

Sometimes the bravest and most impactful decision we can make is to say:
“I can’t do everything.”
“My family needs more of me.”
“I need more of me.”

And that’s not failure. That’s the not so glamorous version of success that is rare but necessary to maintain a secure foundation.

There is a time for community; and we each can (and should) do a little bit to help run the village. But when our marriages, our children, and our own emotional stability are not prioritized, the effects ripple through the community. Strong homes are the bedrock of a strong Klal.