Nechama Shemtov
Last week, I had two very different experiences. At first glance, there seemed to be no connection, but in actuality there was a powerful theme that ran through both.
The first took place in a hospital recovery room.
Our son had undergone a simple procedure requiring anesthesia. The nurse explained that because it was quick and uncomplicated, he would receive the lowest dose necessary — enough to carry him through, not more. Anesthesia, they told us, is carefully calibrated. It is measured according to the depth and length of the procedure.
When he woke up, he was groggy but fine, with no recollection of what had taken place.
Within half an hour he was ready to get dressed and leave. In the bed beside him, separated only by a curtain, was another boy about the same age. He did not wake up so quickly. The nurses called his name, tapped him gently, stepped away and returned again.
They reassured the parents that sometimes it simply takes longer. There was no panic in the nurses’ voices, only attentiveness and patience — an understanding that recovery cannot be forced, only supported.
The following evening, we hosted an event at our Chabad Student Center at GW with Belev Echad, an organization that supports injured Israeli soldiers and helps them rehabilitate and reintegrate into society. Two soldiers spoke to our students about their Oct. 7 journeys.
One had been shot while rushing to support civilians at a neighboring kibbutz; the bullet entered his cheek and exited through his neck. His injury was visible and measurable. A friend held two fingers to his neck as a pressure point for seven hours until they reached a hospital, effectively saving his life. Surgeons knew what needed to be repaired. His recovery required multiple operations, physical therapy and structured rehabilitation.
The second soldier described a different kind of wound. On Oct. 7, he hid for hours in a cramped room on base with a few others, hearing the voices of terrorists outside, certain he would not live. Fifty-four of his friends were murdered that day. For reasons he still cannot explain, the terrorists entered all the other rooms, but not his. He survived. And survival brought with it guilt, trauma, grief, anger and questions that do not quiet easily.
During the follow up Q&A, someone asked whether the government was helping them heal. His answer was thoughtful. “For my friend,” he said, gesturing beside him, “it was clearer. He had a physical injury. They knew exactly what to treat.” Emotional trauma, he explained, is harder to quantify. Programs are offered, therapies suggested, funding determined. But even then, healing is not uniform. Some people return more quickly to routine. Others need longer to process, to absorb what they have lived through. For him, what ultimately helped most was speaking — traveling, sharing his story, giving voice to experiences that otherwise felt overwhelming.
Listening to him, I found myself back in that recovery room.
We often assume that if two people experience something similar, they will respond in similar ways. But that is rarely true. One body clears medication quickly; another needs longer to steady itself. One person rebuilds through structure and physical therapy; another heals and grows through speaking and being heard. The external event may be shared, but the internal processing is always personal.
When Hashem gave the Torah at Mount Sinai, the verse says, “Anochi Hashem Elokecha” — “I am the Lord your God” — in the singular. Our sages explain that although the revelation was national, each person heard the Divine voice according to his or her capacity. The same words were spoken, yet each soul received them differently. The message did not change; the conduit did.
Perhaps that is a model for healing, and for growth.
We are each given experiences — some simple, some life-altering, like the two very different situations I encountered that week. The way they shape us depends on who we are, what we carry, and what tools Hashem has placed within us. Strength does not look the same on every face. Resilience does not follow a single path. Growth is not standardized.
Imagine if we learned to do the same.
To assume less. To judge less. To recognize that the person beside us may be clearing a fog we cannot see — not because they are weaker or stronger, but because they are different.
Perhaps growth lies not only in how we move forward ourselves, but in how sensitively we respond to the journeys unfolding around us. When we allow for different timelines, different viewpoints and different ways of processing life’s experiences, we mirror something deeply rooted in Torah: that Hashem relates to each of us individually.
And if He does, perhaps we should try to as well.
Nechama Shemtov is an internationally acclaimed speaker, educator, licensed coach and community leader based in Washington, D.C.
