Special love to Mushka Eidelman, who is my writing-rock and titled this piece.
I kind of resent how cheesy this is, but I had a character-building experience on our family hike today. (Insert eye roll here.)
Moshe planned our Sunday and I followed his lead. That’s usually the perfect recipe. But for so many reasons and in so many ways, for me the hike was rocky (please enjoy that dad-joke, which unfortunately can’t curtail how uncharming the rest of this will be).
We had started the trail a few times at the wrong location, and when we were finally halfway up our intended climb, trying to make our way to a summit that promised a view, I had a miniature panic attack. I overheated, felt shaky, realized I didn’t eat or drink enough, became claustrophobic, and felt I couldn’t go on.
This wasn’t a hard hike. My six-year-old was sprinting ahead. “Why is this is happening to me?” I asked myself. (Ever the unhelpful question for anxiety.)
Moshe stopped and encouraged me to sit, take my time, and to drink. Then came the signal that this was about so much more than drinking water: how alarmingly annoying it was for him to think I was having a hard time with the hike itself. I snapped back, “No I don’t need to stop! I shouldn’t have done this today to begin with! People who are in bad moods shouldn’t go on hikes!”
Not one, not two, but three untruths.
Only once I was standing there overwhelmed and resisting Moshe’s care did I recognized the pang in my chest and saw it clearly: I was sad, and I was angry.
About what? Unfinished conversations over Shabbos. Needs not being met. Things feeling stuck. Wanting to be chosen. Resenting a family day when I’m upset. Wanting to be taken care of. Being “back here.” Ugh.
My victim mode was online.
Powerlessness.
Blame.
Moshe was staying with me. But with the boys already at the top and not answering our calls, he had to move forward.
My thoughts were so immediate and so young: “Someone else will always come before me.”
My eyes welled up.
Let them go on. I don’t need to see a stupid view. I’ll stay right here. And soon they’ll realize that the one person who thought to pack the backpack with food and water is far behind them. Let them starve.
Alone, encircled by nature, I cried. I felt stupid and silly and ashamed but I let out the cry I was holding in since Thursday, when a conversation left me feeling misunderstood and unloved and unseen.
I don’t want to finish this hike. I just want to be sad. I wanna say no. I want to bow out. I want to be exhausted. I want my family to miss me. And deep down I also want them to see how they can go on without me, how I don’t even matter in the first place.
When I couldn’t cry anymore I opened my eyes and looked at the enormous rocky path, the still trees. They were so strong, so present. Sitting surrounded by their stature, me and my little fit simply didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. This deep knowing came to my bones: my crying was unheard, and nature will just keep doing what it does, whether I continue to the top or not, whether I cry or not. Everything will be the same. Life will go on. The trunks won’t bow, the rocks won’t cry. My family will see an amazing view, and I will be helpless and sad and angry and defeated, sitting on a rock.
I thought about how when I was twelve years old I refused to join my mother and aunt on a Sunday outing because they had originally left without me. If you don’t even want me there, I won’t come. They had turned around and tried to get me to join, but I refused to get in the car. I gave them no choice, and they eventually left. And I missed out on the fun. And no one ever saw the tears I cried. No one but me. I couldn’t believe they had left. If they cared they would have tried harder to make me join, they would have tried longer — maybe even for forever.
Sitting on the trail, looking at the remaining path to the top, I felt the same as that twelve year old girl staring out the window, so willing to forfeit everything good because I was sad. Because I wanted to prove I didn’t matter.
I thought about loved ones in my life who tantrum because they want to be seen. To make a point. To test people. To resist enjoying life — which takes bravery when you’re in pain and afraid. And I saw the decision ahead of me, as much as I hated it too.
I knew that if I stayed here and didn’t keep going, I would be repeating a familiar tendency of denying a beautiful view — representative of an empowered and joyful life — that was waiting only two minutes away.
And for what? For someone to notice me? To insist I matter?
This was a real inner-child moment, the kind where I really had to hug myself with adult arms and remind myself that I alone am the rescue team. It wasn’t the physical distance I needed to overcome: it was making the choice to finish what I started, to see the view I had earned.
To move forward even while holding things left hanging, and hurting.
And anyway, I could either have my little sad angry panic attack sitting there alone, or I have it with a view. I pushed forth.
At the top, the boys were safe, Moshe and Aliyah were laughing, and no one congratulated me or rolled out a red carpet. And annoyingly, they had plenty of water.
Moshe led me to some shade. I felt distance, but I also felt love. Sometimes it’s both.
I sat and took in the spectacular view. I felt the relief of having made it, to experience this picturesque moment with my family, where I belong. The load I was carrying still didn’t matter to anyone. But now with some fresh air and miles of perspective around me, that was okay — even preferred. Maybe this is why they say you find God in nature: its perfection doesn’t bow, it lifts you up.
Forty five minutes later on the way down, we passed the rock where I had sat and cried. I stopped to face the trees and stones that had stood idle. I had walked that path alone. I had cried tears of sadness and anger that only God saw. No one had come to get me, but me.
And I had been enough.
"To resist enjoying life — which takes bravery when you’re in pain and afraid"
Love this so much. So deeply true.
Mim! This is so powerful and so vulnerable. Thank you for sharing. First, I’m glad you finished the hike & you enjoyed the beauty of nature for yourself. Secondly, it’s so beautiful to read how you acknowledge your feelings so openly and you’re on your journey to correcting/accepting misguided feelings or childhood traumas/memories of the past. I think we all live with the younger version within us who wants to be loved and accepted and needed, but it’s so much more when you accept, want, love and need yourself 💕
You need to share more! Your writing is beautiful, and reading what you share every 6+ months isn’t enough!