We live in an age of exposure. Today people post every thought, feeling, and experience. People are interviewed publicly about the details of their love and marriage, about their parenting, their courtship, their private struggles, and the most intimate details of their lives. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is holy. Nothing is Holy of Holies. There is nothing left that belongs to just them.

Every thought is shared. Every emotion is posted. Every experience is documented, recorded, uploaded, and broadcast. Dating, marriage, parenting, hardship, triumph,  all of it becomes content and for those competing in a world in which content is king, nothing is more tempting than oversharing.

Of course, there is value in vulnerability. Other people can learn from our experiences. Sharing can be mechazek, it can strengthen others. It can reduce stigma. It can create connection. I understand that.

Our parsha, Terumah, introduces us to the layout and floor plan of the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle. The outer courtyard hosted the altar where sacrifices were offered. The Kodesh, or the holy section, housed the menorah and the shulchan. The last section was the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies that housed the Aron and was only entered by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur. Our sacred ark which held our sacred luchos and the original Torah scroll was in the most private and inaccessible part of the Mishkan.

Rabbi Soloveitchik suggested that we model our personal lives after the structure and layout of the Mishkan:

From the time I was young, I learned to restrain my feelings and not to demonstrate what was happening in my emotional world. My father would say that the holier and more intimate the feeling, the more it should be concealed. There is a hidden curtain that separates between one’s interior and the exterior: “and the dividing curtain shall separate for you between the Holy and the Holy of Holies.” What location is more sanctified than the inner sanctum of one’s emotional life?

The Holy of Holies was separated by a paroches, a curtain. Not everything was meant for public view. Not everything was meant to be entered freely. If we live in a world where there is no emotional Holy of Holies, where everything is secular, profane, and publicly shared, then what is left of our lives? What remains intimate? What remains our sacred space?

If every conversation you have with God is also one you are willing to have into a microphone and camera, is there any true intimacy between you and Hashem? If every conversation you have with your spouse is one you would comfortably share publicly, is there emotional intimacy between the two of you? If every feeling and thought you would once have shared only with your closest friend is now something you post online, then what remains behind the curtain? Without a curtain, there is no Holy of Holies. And without a Holy of Holies, there is no intimacy.

This concern is not only spiritual. It is psychological and relational. Research increasingly shows that while moderate vulnerability builds connection, habitual oversharing can erode emotional intimacy. Studies suggest that more than sixty percent of adults report difficulty with emotional intimacy in close relationships, often citing fear of vulnerability and blurred personal boundaries as contributing factors. Surveys from the American Psychological Association indicate that heavy social media users are significantly more likely to report feelings of loneliness and superficial connection despite frequent sharing. A recent report from the Pew Research Center found that nearly half of adults say social media makes it harder to maintain meaningful boundaries in relationships. Relationship therapists consistently observe that couples who regularly process private marital conflict publicly, whether online or broadly within social circles, experience lower long-term trust and diminished emotional safety.

Why does this happen? Because intimacy requires containment. True emotional intimacy is not merely disclosure. It is selective disclosure within a protected space. When everything is shared, nothing feels chosen. Nothing feels exclusive. Nothing feels sacred. Oversharing can create what psychologists describe as pseudo intimacy, the illusion of closeness without the depth that comes from protected vulnerability. When every emotion is externalized to an audience, it is no longer held carefully within a relationship. And intimacy thrives on what is held.

We are in danger of becoming a generation without a paroches. A generation where nothing is reserved, where no conversation is too sacred to record, where no struggle is too private to publish. But holiness depends on separation. The Torah’s entire system of kedusha is built on havdala, on distinction, between kodesh and chol, between public and private, between outer courtyard and inner sanctuary. If there is no emotional curtain, there is no emotional sanctuary. If there is no sanctuary, there is no sacred space for marriage. If there is no sacred space for marriage, there is no deep trust. If there is no sacred space with God, then tefillah risks becoming performance rather than encounter.

Let me be clear. This is not a criticism of any individual. There is real value in appropriate sharing. There are times when speaking openly helps others. There are times when sharing pain reduces isolation. There are times when telling our story gives someone else strength. But the question is not whether to share. The question is what we hold back, what we preserve, what we protect.

Every relationship needs something that belongs only to it. A marriage needs conversations that exist nowhere else. A soul needs prayers that are never recorded. A family needs memories that are never posted. We must restore the paroches. We must recreate that section of our lives that is not for public consumption. We must consciously designate an emotional Holy of Holies. Because intimacy requires exclusivity. Holiness requires boundaries. And connection, whether with a spouse or with Hashem, requires something that is just between us.

If everything is shared, nothing is sacred. Let us bring back the curtain.

Over the past decade, something subtle but profoundly consequential has shifted in our collective mindset. There was a time when “free” felt like a gift: unexpected, generous, and almost miraculous. But slowly, and without notice, “free” stopped feeling like a blessing and started feeling like a baseline expectation. What once inspired gratitude now often triggers entitlement. This shift is not only cultural or economic. It is deeply spiritual.

We have become accustomed to receiving extraordinary value instantly and effortlessly. With a tap or a swipe, we learn, watch, listen, scroll, and download. But rarely do we pause to consider the cost behind what appears to be free. The writers, the educators, the engineers, and the infrastructure, representing the countless hours poured in by people we will never meet, all fade into the background, hidden behind the screen.

Of course, free never means costless. It simply means that someone else is paying. Sometimes we pay with our data or attention. Sometimes we pay with privacy. But often, the true cost is carried quietly by others in their time, resources, emotional energy, or burnout. The more we grow accustomed to receiving without contributing, the more something within us subtly dulls. Responsibility loosens, expectations inflate, and the mindset that develops online inevitably spills into our real lives, into our communities, our relationships, and even our relationship with Torah itself.

Judaism teaches that gratitude is not merely a feeling or a polite thank you. It is a posture. It is action. It is participation. The very word “Yehudi” comes from hoda’ah, meaning acknowledgment or admission. To be a Jew is to recognize that we are not self-made. We depend on Hashem and we depend on one another, and that dependence demands a response.

If someone examined your credit card statement, what story would it tell? What would they conclude truly matters to you? Our spending is not random. It reflects our comforts, our habits, and our priorities. But does it reflect our values, our spiritual aspirations, or our commitment to community?

We spend, often unthinkingly, on convenience, entertainment, and endless upgrades. Yet when it comes to Torah institutions, communal life, and spiritual growth, we sometimes hesitate. Not because these things do not matter to us, but because we have grown used to receiving without being asked. So when a website pops up with a request to support the Torah content we enjoy daily, we click away and continue receiving the benefit while assuming someone else will contribute.

That is why Parshas Shekalim speaks so powerfully to our moment. Every Jew over twenty was required to give a machatzis hashekel, a half shekel, to fund the communal offerings in the Beis HaMikdash. It was not a voluntary contribution, nor was it tiered by income. The Torah makes a point of saying that the rich shall not give more and the poor shall not give less. Why not let the wealthy shoulder the full cost? Why obligate the poor at all?

Because community is not built by spectators. It is built by stakeholders. The Torah insists that every Jew, no matter their means, must have a share, a portion, and a stake in sustaining our sacred life together. No one is meant to be a passive consumer of Jewish life. We are meant to be partners in building it.

The half shekel teaches that belonging requires contribution. It is not enough to care. One must commit. It is not enough to appreciate. One must participate. The instinct to assume that someone else will take care of it is not new. We tell ourselves someone else will donate, someone else will volunteer, or someone else will lead. But the Torah responds with a gentle but firm truth: there is no someone else. There is only us.

In our digital age, it is easier than ever to opt out. No one sees if you close the appeal. No one knows if you scroll past the fundraiser. But Torah is not about what others see. It is about who we become. Gratitude is not the debt we owe to make the giver whole. It is the gift we give to make ourselves whole, an expression of humility, of acknowledgment, and of recognizing that our lives have been enriched by others.

When we contribute, even modestly and even privately, we undergo a subtle yet profound transformation. We shift from passive recipients to active partners, from consumers to builders, and from takers to sustainers. The question is not whether everything must be monetized. Of course not. The explosion of accessible Torah is an enormous beracha. The question is whether the culture of free has eroded our instinct to give back.

So we must ask ourselves—when something uplifts you, inspires you, strengthens your emunah, or deepens your learning, do you see yourself as a consumer or as a partner? Even a small contribution matters. Not only because of what it enables, but because of what it says about our investment and our place in the community.

The Beis HaMikdash was sustained not by a handful of magnanimous donors, but by a nation of half shekel partners. Free can be kind, but gratitude must be intentional. Before assuming that free means no cost, pause and ask who made this possible and how you can help sustain it. Reflect on what you consume and equally on what you contribute. Cultivate the habit of noticing the effort behind the inspiration.

With that in mind, I want to share that our annual BRS Global Campaign is now underway. Every shiur you listen to, every class you watch, every article you read, and every moment of Torah that strengthens your soul is made possible only through the partnership of those who believe in spreading Torah to every corner of the world.

If BRS Torah has enriched your life in any way, if it has helped you grow, inspired you, challenged you, or brought you closer to Hashem, I ask you to consider expressing that gratitude in a tangible way. Our ability to continue teaching, sharing, and uplifting depends on those who benefit stepping forward to sustain this sacred work. If you have not yet participated, please take a moment today to join us as a partner by visiting brsonline.org/global and making your contribution. Your gift declares that this matters, that you are part of this, and that you are counted in.

On Sunday night in Pittsburgh, the Baltimore Ravens and Pittsburgh Steelers’ seasons came down to one kick. Tyler Loop, the Ravens’ rookie kicker who had not missed a single field goal under 50 yards all year, lined up for a 44-yard attempt that would decide the game and, by extension, the winner of the AFC North. The snap was perfect, the hold was clean, the ball had the distance. And then, before a stunned stadium and a national audience, it drifted wide. The Steelers won and are going to the playoffs, while Baltimore’s season ended abruptly and stunningly.

The moment went viral not only because of the drama, but because earlier that evening a priest had walked the field and sprinkled “holy water” in one of the end zones. Hours later, it was that very end zone toward which the Ravens were kicking. Asked about it after the game, Steelers captain Cam Heyward smiled and said he wouldn’t ask too many questions but said, “The good Lord made a good decision that night.”

I don’t follow football and didn’t even know about the game until someone sent me the article about the “blessed” end zone and asked the real question behind the headline: Are Jews really meant to believe Hashem intervenes in a football game?

But this isn’t a sports question. It’s a life question. Is anything too small for Hashem? Is a moment, a decision, a gust of wind beneath His notice or providence?

Though there is nuance, and there are different approaches, the short answer is that as Torah people of faith, we are meant to live with the belief that Hashem is involved in everything. Dovid HaMelech wrote (and we sing in Hallel), ha’mashpili lir’os ba’shomayim u’vaaretz, He lowers Himself to see in the heavens and on the earth. Chazal understand that nothing is too lofty for Him and nothing is too small. The same God Who guides the fate of nations is attentive to the details of a single life. The same God Who orchestrates history also arranges the gust of wind that pushes a football a degree to the right. There is no realm of existence in which He is absent, no moment in which He is not present.

So does Hashem care who wins? In the sense that He is involved in and dictates everything that unfolds in His world, yes. But not in the simplistic way we imagine. Hashem was not only listening to the tefillos of Steelers fans. He was also speaking to the Ravens, to their coaches, and especially to the young kicker who missed for the first time from that distance. God was present not only in the celebration, but in the heartbreak.

We control our effort. Hashem controls the result. That is countercultural, but it is Torah. From our perspective, a capable kicker missed in a pressure moment. From the perspective of emunah, Hashem decreed that at that exact second, in those exact conditions, the ball would not pass through the uprights. For one side, that miss felt like a divine yes. For the other, a painful no. Yet both were within His plan.

Judaism insists that Hashem is as present in the miss as in the make. In the disappointment as in the triumph. The question this game invites is not whether God was in the stadium, it is whether we are listening to what He might be telling us through the moment.

Failure does not have to be a verdict. It can be an invitation. A chance to grow, to soften, to deepen. Sometimes Hashem uses a public disappointment to remind a person that he is more than his statistics.

This truth is beautifully symbolized in a custom many barely meaningfully think about or attach spiritual significance to. At a Bar Mitzvah or an Aufruf we throw candies at the boy or the chassan. As Rav Schorr explains, these are moments of transition and growth. Life will soon begin throwing things at them. They will feel struck, pelted. But the things being thrown are candies. They hurt, but inside is sweetness. Inside the challenge is a gift, if one has the courage to pick it up and unwrap it.

The missed kick in Pittsburgh is one of those candies. Most of us will never stand in a stadium with millions watching, but all of us stand in our own decisive moments: a diagnosis, an interview, a shidduch, an application. We prepare, we daven, we give our all. Then the answer comes. Sometimes it is the yes we prayed for. Sometimes it is the no we feared.

When it is yes, we must remember Who decided it. When it is no, we must remember the candy, the possibility of hidden sweetness.

The “holy water” on the field made for a good headline. But the deeper story is not about a priest or an AFC North title. It is about haMashpili lir’os baShamayim u’vaAretz, about a God Who lowers Himself to be present in every end zone and every human heart.

Because the real game is not played on the field at all. It is played inside the neshamah of each of us.

Twenty years ago, a woman I knew came to me with a heavy heart. She was married to a man who had become an alcoholic. This wasn’t social drinking nor was it “a little too much at kiddush or at a simcha.” It was a pattern that was slowly hollowing out his life and his home. She was clear on what had to happen, but she lacked the courage and confidence to confront him. She asked me if I would.

As a young rabbi, I was inexperienced in this area (and most others) but I knew one thing: confrontation can humiliate or it can heal. It can push a person further into denial, or it can become the beginning of their redemption. I agreed to speak with this husband, not because I had guarantees about how it would go, but because looking away and staying silent was no longer an option.

I called him and asked if I could stop by. I didn’t spell out why, I just asked if we could catch up. I will never forget that evening: the fear I felt pulling up to his house, the tefillah I whispered asking Hashem to give me the right words. When I arrived, we sat outside. In his typical generous hospitality, he opened two beers, one for himself and one for me. On the surface, it was the picture of two people, friends shmoozing on a nice Florida evening. We spoke about work, family, life. It felt casual, unforced.

But the whole time, beneath the surface, I knew I wasn’t there just to catch up. I wasn’t there to judge him, label him, or attack him. I was there to share a truth that his wife, some close friends, and I all saw clearly, and that he, on some level, likely already knew but had not allowed himself to fully face. At a certain point, I gently steered the conversation where it needed to go.

“Look, I didn’t come here only to hang out. I came because your wife, some close friends, and I are very concerned. We see the role alcohol plays in your life, and it isn’t healthy; it has gotten out of control. This isn’t easy for me to say, but it’s harder to watch you continue this way and say nothing.” When you bring something like this up, you brace yourself for the response: “You’re overreacting. Everyone drinks. This is my business, not yours. Mind your own business. Stay out of my personal life.” You expect anger, denial, defensiveness.

This man didn’t do any of that. He didn’t blow up or storm off. Instead, he looked at me. Really looked at me. He gave me a long, strong, searching stare that made time feel like it had slowed down. It wasn’t a hateful look, and it wasn’t even particularly angry. It was the look of a man suddenly faced with a mirror he could no longer avoid. In that moment, it felt as if he was asking himself, “Is this really what people see when they look at me? Is he serious? Am I an alcoholic? Have I lost control?”

Then, without fanfare, without any dramatic declaration, he put his beer down and the sound of the glass made a clank. He did not take another sip. We continued to talk. From the outside, nothing dramatic had changed. There was no emotional explosion, no tearful promise, no big speech. But in that simple act of placing the beer down and not picking it back up, a line had been drawn. A decision had been made.

That beer was the last drink he ever took. From that day forward, he threw himself into recovery. He did not try to do it alone. He joined a recovery program. He went to meetings. He got a sponsor. He surrounded himself with people who understood his struggle and were committed to helping him heal and rebuild his life. And here is what is so remarkable: he told me that not only has he not touched alcohol since that day, but he has not even felt tempted to drink. Not once.

Twenty years ago, he put down that bottle and hasn’t picked up alcohol since, but that is far from the only change in his life. Twenty years of sobriety has meant twenty years of showing up differently for his family, for himself, for his career, and for Hashem. From the outside, it looks like he made one decision and held to it for two decades. But that is not how it really works. Recovery is not accomplished in twenty-year chunks. It can only ever be lived one day at a time.

When someone faces a destructive habit, whether alcohol, drugs, uncontrolled anger, dishonesty, impatience, or anything else, and realizes something must change, they often hear or tell themselves, “You can never do this again for the rest of your life. You have to stop forever.” The natural reaction is panic. “The rest of my life? Never again? That’s impossible. I’m guaranteed to fail.” The phrase “for the rest of your life” feels so big, so heavy, that it nearly paralyzes the person before they even take their first step.

We simply are not designed to live for “forever.” We are only capable of living today. But if instead you say, “Don’t drink today,” something shifts. Today is manageable. Today is concrete. Today feels attainable. Whatever we need to eliminate or work on, as soon as we move it into the realm of “forever,” it feels hopeless. But when we bring it down to one more day, to today, it becomes possible.

That is the secret of recovery: one day at a time. Not, “I will never drink again,” but, “Today, I will not drink. Today, I will stay sober.” And tomorrow, with Hashem’s help, we will say it again. You wake up in the morning and you don’t stay sober for twenty years; you stay sober for this morning, for this afternoon, for this evening. You do that enough times, and before you know it, those individual days have added up into something enormous. One day you turn around and realize that one more day and one more day and one more day without became twenty years.

When Yaakov Avinu agrees to work for Lavan for seven long, challenging years in order to marry Rochel, the Torah tells us something very surprising: “Vaya’avod Yaakov b’Rochel sheva shanim, vayihyu b’einav k’yamim achadim b’ahavaso osah.” Yaakov worked for Rochel for seven years, and they seemed to him but a few days, k’yamim achadim, because of his love for her.

At first glance, this is difficult to understand. When we long for something, when we are waiting for someone we love, time usually moves slowly. Every day feels like an eternity. When a chassan and kallah are waiting for their wedding, when someone is waiting for a refuah, when a person is waiting for vacation to start, it rarely feels like a “few days.” If anything, it feels like forever. So how could the Torah say that seven hard years passed for Yaakov “like a few days”?

Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski z”l, who was a world-renowned expert, thinker, and writer on addiction and recovery, suggests a beautiful insight. He points out that the word “achadim” shares a root with the word “echad,” one. Yaakov did not live those seven years as one overwhelming, crushing block of time. He lived them as yamim echadim, one day at a time. Each day was a single unit of avodah: one day of working, one day of being one step closer, one day of commitment, one day of holding on to his love for Rochel and his trust in Hashem. Seven years is daunting. “Today” is not. When one lives in the present day, focused on what today demands, seven years can indeed pass “like a few days.”

When my friend quietly put his beer down that day, I don’t believe he was consciously committing to perfection for the rest of his life or picturing celebrating his twentieth anniversary of sobriety. He was taking the next right step. He was agreeing to face the truth, to seek help, to walk into that first meeting, to say no to the immediate urge. He was choosing to live that day differently. Hashem took that one courageous “today” and, one day at a time, turned it into twenty years.

He and I met recently to sit and talk once again and to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of that fateful conversation.  He shared with me, “When I put the bottle of beer down, something happened.  Something humanly unexplainable.  A profound change happened instantly.  The only attribute could be Hashem.  He was the catalyst that began this journey.”   In recovery, step three is to submit to a higher power and trust in God for help.  Twenty years ago, my friend discovered a real and raw relationship with Hashem, a genuine and ongoing conversation with the Almighty.

As I marveled at his fortitude and accomplishment, I thought to myself: every one of us has something we need to work on, a temper that flares too quickly, a tongue that speaks too freely, a laziness that holds us back, a jealousy that corrodes our happiness, a private behavior we are ashamed of. When we tell ourselves, “I must never do this again for the rest of my life,” we set ourselves up to feel crushed and defeated. We mean well, but we are thinking in terms that only Hashem can handle.

What if, instead, we thought and spoke to ourselves the way Torah and recovery both teach us to: “Today, I will be careful with my speech. Today, I will work on being more patient. Today, I will not open that site, that bottle, that door. Today, I will show up as the husband, wife, parent, friend, Jew I know I can be.” The next day, we take a deep breath, trust in Hashem and say it again. Forever is not in our hands. Today is.

If you are like the woman in this story, watching someone you love slipping into something destructive, the feeling of helplessness can be overwhelming. You look at their future, and at yours, and “the rest of our lives” feels unbearably heavy. But you are not responsible to fix the rest of their life in one action, and you are not expected to know exactly what the next twenty years will bring. You can take one step. She took one step by reaching out and asking for help. I took one step by agreeing to have a hard conversation. He took one step by putting down that beer and walking into recovery. Each of those steps was a yom echad, a single day’s act of courage. Hashem can multiply that.

And if, in this story, you recognize yourself not in the wife but in the husband, if you sense that your drinking, or some other behavior, your private life, has become something you no longer fully control, then please hear this clearly: you do not need to promise perfection and you do not need to swear that you will never struggle again. You need to be honest today. Today, admit that this has gotten out of control. Today, share it with someone you trust. Today, make one phone call, walk into one meeting, send one message asking for help. Today, ask Hashem for the strength not for the next twenty years, but for the next twenty-four hours.

The yetzer hara, the voice of self-sabotage, loves the language of “forever.” It whispers, “You’ll never keep this up. You’ll fail eventually. Why even start if you can’t be perfect?” Torah and genuine recovery answer with the language of echad: not forever, but one. One step. One day. One honest conversation. One sincere tefillah. One refusal to pick up the next drink.

Twenty years ago, a wife’s fear, a husband’s hidden readiness, and one difficult but loving conversation converged on a porch. I can still hear the sound of him putting down that beer. That small, almost unremarkable motion did not just end a drink; it began a new life.

Published with permission

“What’s the Torah here?” What is the message?

A dear friend of mine often sees headlines or stories in the secular world and tries to seek deeper meaning behind them. In this case, he posted on his WhatsApp status a picture of a football player and the description of an unusual phenomenon.  The Denver Broncos are tied for the best record in the NFL but also leading the league in punts.  These data points seem contradictory because a team punts the ball when they fail to achieve a first down and concede being on offense to the other team.  Punting reflects failure and no team has punted this year more than the Broncos.  And yet, simultaneously, they are not only in first place in their division, they are tied for the best record in the game.  My friend posted these stats with the question, what is the Torah, what is the deeper message?

While I don’t follow football, this anomaly fascinated me, so I thought about it, took a shot, and wrote back, “Success isn’t linear.  Can’t do everything or score every play.  Need to punt when necessary in order to focus and win.”

As much as we wish life were simple, straightforward and linear, it is invariably filled with ups and downs, successes and failures, highs and lows.  Our instinct is to often fight this pattern, resist it, and resent it.  In truth, we should embrace the ride and work to move in the right direction.  

Rav Avraham Schorr explains that like an EKG, a straight, flat line means you are no longer alive.  Only when the line goes up and down, rising and falling, is the heart truly beating. The same is true of life: The ups and the downs, the moments of inspiration and the moments of struggle, are all signs that a person is spiritually alive and moving. Hashem designed the world so that growth happens through cycles, tests, successes, failures, rebuilding. A perfectly smooth life with no challenges might feel easier, but it would represent no movement, no pulse, no life.

Shlomo HaMelech teaches, “Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam,” a righteous person falls seven times and rises. At first glance, it sounds like the tzaddik succeeds despite failure: he rises even though he falls. But Chazal reveal a deeper truth. The tzaddik does not rise in spite of the falls, he rises because of them. Each fall becomes part of the very process that shapes him.

The Chiddushei HaRim explains that a person gains from a fall what he could never gain from uninterrupted success. Falling teaches humility, reveals inner strength, refines character, and creates sensitivity toward the struggles of others. Every stumble forces a person to confront their limitations and renew their relationship with Hashem. In that sense, the fall is not an interruption to spiritual growth but the mechanism through which growth is achieved.

The pasuk does not say, “A person falls seven times, and a tzaddik rises.” It says, “Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam.” The one who has fallen is already referred to as a tzaddik. Why? Because he kept getting up. His identity is defined not by the fall but by his response to it. The seven setbacks are not seven failures; they are the seven rungs of the ladder that lift him higher than untested success ever could.

Speaking at a Dartmouth graduation, Tennis great Roger Federer put it so well. He noted that in the 1,526 singles matches he played in his career, he won almost 80% of them. Then he asked the assembled crowd, “What percentage of the points do you think I won in those matches?” He paused. “Only 54 percent.” In other words, even top-ranked tennis players, the greatest who ever played the game, win barely more than half of the points they play. Federer continued:

When you lose every second point, on average, you learn not to dwell on every shot. You teach yourself to think: OK, I double-faulted. It’s only a point. OK, I came to the net and I got passed again. It’s only a point. Even a great shot … an overhead backhand smash that ends up on ESPN’s Top Ten Plays: that, too, is just a point.

Here’s why I am telling you this. When you’re playing a point, it is the most important thing in the world. But when it’s behind you, it’s behind you. This mindset … frees you to fully commit to the next point … and the next one after that … with intensity, clarity and focus.

The truth is, whatever game you play in life … sometimes you’re going to lose. A point, a match, a season, a job … it’s a roller coaster, with many ups and downs. And it’s natural, when you’re down, to doubt yourself. To feel sorry for yourself. And by the way, your opponents have self-doubt, too. Don’t ever forget that. But negative energy is wasted energy.

You want to become a master at overcoming hard moments. That to me is the sign of a champion. The best in the world are not the best because they win every point … It’s because they know they’ll lose … again and again … and have learned how to deal with it. You accept it. Cry it out if you need to … then force a smile. You move on. Be relentless. Adapt and grow. Work harder. Work smarter.

There is probably no athlete in history more associated with winning than Michael Jordan. Nike recognized his greatness early and became the largest apparel companies in the country by tying itself to Jordan’s talent and success. While most Nike commercials that featured Jordan would showcase his highlights and championships, a 1997 commercial shrewdly did the exact opposite. The brief commercial shows Jordan exiting a dimly lit arena as he narrates: “I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times, I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.”

In life, we often imagine spiritual growth as linear, smooth, steady, predictable. We think success means never punting, never losing a point. But the Torah teaches that a straight line is not the sign of life, it’s the sign of death. Movement, fluctuation, rise and fall, these are the signs of a beating heart. Our missteps and disappointments are not evidence that we are failing. They are invitations from Hashem to ascend higher. When we rise after falling, we emerge not as who we were before, but as someone deeper, wiser, and closer to Him.

So the next time you fall—and you will fall—remember: The 9-2, first-place Denver Broncos have punted more than any team in the league. Roger Federer lost 46% of his points. Michael Jordan lost hundreds of games. The tzaddik falls seven times. And the EKG only shows life when the line moves up and down.

Your falls don’t disqualify you from greatness. They are the very path to it. Don’t fear the fluctuations. Embrace them. They mean you are alive, growing, and on a real journey. They mean your heart is still beating.