When Pesach Became My Reality

Every year before Pesach, we clean out chametz.

On the surface, it’s about getting rid of crumbs—bread, anything leavened, anything that doesn’t belong for that week. But it never really feels like it’s just about crumbs. It’s too thorough for that. Too intentional.

You check pockets, corners, places you normally ignore. You go out of your way to find things you didn’t even realize were there.

And I keep thinking about how similar that feels to the way we hold onto people.

Not in a harsh, “cut everyone off” kind of way. But in the quieter, more honest way—where you start noticing what’s actually there instead of what you’ve been telling yourself is there.

Because sometimes, we don’t question what we’ve gotten used to.

We stay connected out of habit, out of history, out of who someone has always been in our life—without stopping to ask what the relationship actually feels like today.

And like chametz, it’s not always obvious. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s small. Subtle. Easy to ignore.

Until you actually go looking.

At a Shabbaton I was at, we did something that I can’t stop thinking about. We were each given a piece of paper and asked to write down something we didn’t want to bring with us into Pesach.

Not just physical things. Patterns. Feelings. Attachments. The quieter things we carry without even realizing.

And then, one by one, we put those papers into a tray. And they were burned.

It was simple. No big speech. Just paper and fire.

But I loved it. Because it made something internal feel real. It forced a kind of honesty you can usually avoid.

You had to decide: what am I actually ready to let go of?

And I think that question became a lot more real for me after making aliyah.

Because distance does something that reflection alone doesn’t.

A seven-hour time difference doesn’t leave much room for convenience. It brings clarity.

If someone is part of your life, it’s because there is intention behind it. It doesn’t just happen passively anymore.

And I started to notice what that looks like.

Who makes the effort.

Who finds a way to stay connected, even when it’s not easy.

And at the same time, I noticed something else.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly.

Some connections don’t hold in the same way when they’re no longer carried by proximity or routine.

And instead of trying to explain that away, or fix it, or hold onto it the way it once was, I think there’s something honest about allowing yourself to see it for what it is.

Because this isn’t about “throwing people out.” People aren’t chametz.

The ways we overextend.

The ways we accept less than we feel.

The ways we stay in dynamics that don’t fully meet us—because they’re familiar.

Those are things you can name.

Those are things you can decide not to carry forward.

And at the same time, something else started happening.

As I built a life here, I started meeting new people. And what stood out wasn’t just that they were new—it was how they showed up.

There was a sense of being valued that felt natural, not something you had to earn or chase.

And there was something else I didn’t expect.

A lack of tension that I didn’t even realize I had been carrying.

I noticed that I wasn’t thinking as much before I spoke. Not in a careless way—but in a free way. I wasn’t filtering every word, rehearsing, adjusting, trying to make sure nothing would be taken the wrong way.

I could just say what I meant.

And it would be heard that way.

There was an understanding—an assumption of good intent.

Not everything needed to be explained or softened or carefully framed. There was space to be thoughtful without feeling like you had to walk on eggshells.

And something else started to stand out to me.

People began asking me for my advice.

Not casually. Not just in passing. But in a real way—like they genuinely wanted to hear what I had to say.

And I found that so refreshing.

Because it wasn’t just about being included—it was about being trusted.

They valued my perspective.

They trusted my intentions.

They knew that when I spoke, it was coming from a place of care.

And it made me reflect on something.

Maybe I’ve always had that to give.

But now, being in a space where I feel more at ease, more myself—I’m giving it more freely.

There’s less holding back. Less overthinking. Less filtering.

Just a genuine desire to want the best for the people around me.

To see them succeed. To see them grow. To help them get to the best outcome for themselves.

There’s a kind of trust that builds from that—a quiet, consistent trust.

And the truth is, this isn’t new.

I’ve always been someone people come to. Even before, I was a safe space for others.

But something feels different now.

Here, it feels consistent.

It’s not a back and forth. Not a guessing game. Not something that changes from one day to the next.

There isn’t that quiet questioning of,

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Why does this feel different today?”

“Am I okay with this person right now?”

There’s a steadiness.

A kind of emotional clarity where you don’t have to constantly check where you stand.

And I didn’t realize how much energy that used to take.

How much space it occupied—trying to read between lines, trying to adjust, trying to make sense of shifting reactions.

And what it feels like to no longer carry that.

To just exist in relationships that feel stable.

Where people show up in a way that aligns with what they say.

Where there’s consistency in how you’re treated.

Where you’re not left interpreting or second-guessing.

There’s something deeply calming about that.

And it made me realize something I didn’t fully see before:

The level of care I was hoping for wasn’t unrealistic.

It was simply a reflection of what I value—and what I bring.

Because Pesach isn’t just about removing chametz. It’s about creating space for something else—something more intentional, more honest.

I came across a thought from Rabbi Landau recently—that the chains today are not made of iron, but of thoughts.

And it stayed with me.

Because maybe leaving Mitzrayim today doesn’t look like breaking physical chains.

Maybe it looks like recognizing the patterns, the assumptions, the quiet ways we’ve learned to shrink, to question ourselves, to accept less than we feel—and choosing, slowly, to step out of them.

And I think relationships work the same way.

When you clear out what no longer feels aligned, you don’t just lose—you make space.

Space for people who meet you where you are.

Space for relationships that feel mutual.

Space for a version of yourself that doesn’t have to question where you stand.

Watching those papers burn, I kept thinking: this is what it looks like to decide something is no longer part of your life.

Not because it never mattered. But because it doesn’t belong in the next chapter.

And in that process, something shifts internally too.

There’s a kind of peace that comes with it.

Not a loud, dramatic kind. A quiet one.

Where you stop chasing,

stop over-explaining,

stop trying to prove your place.

You just… understand.

You see things clearly, and instead of fighting it, you accept it.

And in that acceptance, you begin to recognize your own worth.

Not just in what others give you—

but in what you bring.

In the way you show up.

In the care you’ve been offering all along.

And you start to understand that being valued isn’t something you have to earn again and again.

It’s something that meets you where you already are.

And maybe that’s part of it too.

After so much loss, something in me was ready for something different.

And somehow, being here, it feels like I was given exactly what I needed.

Not in a loud way. Not all at once.

But in the people I’ve met.

In the way they show up.

In the steadiness, the trust, the ease.

Like this place understood something I couldn’t fully put into words.

And that it wasn’t random.

That Hashem knew what I needed—and brought it to me in a way I could finally receive.

We clean for Pesach like it matters.

We write things down like it matters.

We watch them burn like it matters.

Because maybe this isn’t just about letting go—

it’s about finally making space for a life where you feel at peace,

where you don’t have to question your worth to belong,

and where, sometimes, it takes distance to see clearly—that you were never asking for too much.

You were simply ready for something deeper.

Inspired by the teachings of Rabbi Landau, who teaches that “the chains today are thoughts.”

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)