Shabbos Nachamu

Shabbos Nachamu

It’s a Shabbos we all wait for.

A Shabbos that feels so light, so hopeful, so full of life.

After three long weeks of restrictions and mourning, after the Nine Days, after Tisha B’Av itself, everything slowly eases. Fresh laundry. Haircuts. Music returns. Pools fill with laughter. Families begin making plans again. Especially this year, when Tisha B’Av fell on Thursday, it feels as though we step almost directly from the darkness into the light. Everyone rejoices. Everyone sings. Everyone breathes again.

And it’s beautiful.

It should be.

But what happens to those of us whose Tisha B’Av never ends? What about those who were tormented, abused, neglected, or shattered long before they ever opened an Eicha? What about those who carry Eicha every single day of the year?

For some of us, Tisha B’Av was almost… easier. Because for one day, the world finally gave us permission to sit on the floor. Permission to cry. Permission to stop pretending.

This is where we’ve lived for years.

We live with pain. We live with restrictions that were placed upon us by other people. We live with darkness. We live with fear. We live with memories that refuse to stay in the past.

Tisha B’Av didn’t create that pain.

It simply acknowledged it.

Then suddenly everyone stands up. Everyone begins singing. Everyone starts dancing toward Shabbos Nachamu.

And we’re still sitting on the floor.

Not because we don’t want to get up.

Because we can’t.

We’re still shackled by wounds that never healed, still carrying abuse that happened decades ago but somehow still feels like yesterday. So we sit here on Shabbos Nachamu trying so desperately to rejoice. Trying to smile. Trying to enjoy Shabbos.

But our own Eicha didn’t end when the last kinah was recited. Our own Eicha didn’t end at chatzos. Our own Eicha came home with us. It is the air we breathe, the food we eat, the bed we sleep in, the roads we drive. It has become woven into the fabric of our lives.

Please believe me.

We’re trying.

We’re trying everything we know how. Therapy. Healing. Prayer. Hope. Fighting battles nobody else can see. Trying to turn the page. Trying to believe there can be lighter days. Trying to believe there can still be joy.

Yet sometimes the page simply won’t turn.

Not because we don’t want it to.

Because trauma doesn’t follow the Jewish calendar. Pain doesn’t disappear because Tisha B’Av ended. Healing doesn’t begin because the restrictions were lifted.

This isn’t a plea for pity. I don’t want pity. None of us do.

We simply want people to know that while so many are celebrating Shabbos Nachamu, there are others quietly grieving. Not the Beis Hamikdash, but their own lives. Their own childhood. Their own Eicha.

So while you’re singing this Shabbos, please remember those who cannot yet sing. While you’re dancing, remember those who are still learning how to stand. While you’re celebrating the comfort of Nachamu, remember those who are still waiting to feel comfort for the very first time.

And to every person reading this who feels that Shabbos Nachamu is somehow harder than Tisha B’Av itself, I see you. I feel you. You’re not strange. You’re not broken. You’re not alone.

Our pain cannot be measured by a calendar. It cannot be scheduled to end at chatzos. When the very foundation of a person has been chipped away, broken, shattered, healing is measured differently.

So if this Shabbos finds you still sitting on the floor inside your own heart, know that someone else is sitting there too.

And from one soul still learning how to stand, I’m sending you strength.

May this Shabbos bring each of us, in whatever way we are able, one small step closer to our own Nachamu.