When “Trust in Hashem” Feels Like One More Thing You’re Failing At

The house is finally quiet. It’s a silence you’ve fought for all day, a silence that should feel like peace but instead lands with the weight of tomorrow. You stand alone in the kitchen, the soft glow from under the cabinets illuminating the day’s final task: a single, forgotten teacup in the sink.

As you wash it, you feel the day settle into your bones—the endless caregiving, the emotional labor, the constant hum of responsibility, the faint stickiness of spilled juice still on your hands. Everyone knows you as the strong one, the one who holds it all together. But here, in the quiet, you feel the truth: a hollowness so profound it echoes. This isn't strength; it is spiritual exhaustion masked as strength, and you are running on empty. You are depleted, and the faith that is meant to be your wellspring feels impossibly far away.

The Silent Ache of a Faithful Heart

You say the words. You do the actions. You believe with your whole heart. So why does it feel like you’re running on fumes? Why does the emuna that’s supposed to sustain you feel like another standard you can't meet?

You listen to the shiurim, you say your Tehillim, you try to feel that perfect, peaceful trust. But late at night, when the house is still, the ache in your soul is louder than any promise. It whispers that you are not doing enough, not feeling enough, not trusting enough. It feels like you are failing at the one thing that should be saving you.

Let me tell you something with all the certainty in my soul: You’re not broken, you’re overextended. Hashem is not disappointed in your exhaustion. Your struggle is not a sign that your faith is flawed; it is a sign that you have been giving everything you have.

What if Emuna Isn't a Feeling?

We are often taught, implicitly, that emuna—faith and trust in Hashem—is a feeling. A constant state of serene calm, a peaceful heart that never wavers. When we don't feel it, especially when life is demanding everything from us, we think we have failed. But what if we’ve misunderstood the assignment?

Faith as an Action, Not an Emotion

Jewish thought frames faith not as a passive emotional state, but as an active, experiential process. Judaism is an experiential religion that requires active "doing." Faith isn't something you have; it’s something you do. It is our ability to trust life while taking the next step. Even when the feeling isn't there, the act of taking that next small step—washing the teacup, getting into bed, breathing in and out—is itself an act of profound faith.

The Purpose of a World That Asks for So Much

The great sage Ramchal explains in Derekh Hashem that humanity was intentionally created in a state "between perfection and deficiency," and that it is "in their hands to earn perfection." Your struggle is not an accident or a sign of your failure. It is the very landscape upon which you were created to exist. So, the tension you feel is not a bug in the system; it is the system itself. You were placed here, in this beautiful, demanding life, precisely to do this work of choosing connection when everything in you feels disconnected. This is not your failing; this is your holy work.

The Emuna of a Simple Conversation

When you are this tired, the thought of formal prayer can feel like being asked to climb a mountain. The words feel heavy, the intention out of reach. But what if prayer isn't a performance?

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov teaches that it is very good to "pour out your thoughts before God, like a child pleading before his father." Hashem calls us His children. And as the Sages affirm, "For good or for evil you are always called His children."

Think of a small child, overwhelmed and exhausted, who comes to a loving parent. The child doesn't clean up their tears or organize their thoughts before running into their father's arms. They come with the tantrum, the exhaustion, the mess. You do not need to fix your feelings before you turn to Him. You can bring the unedited, unfiltered, exhausted truth of your heart directly to your Father. And know this: that raw, honest turning, even when it feels like a complaint, is more than just a plea for help. It is the work of a soldier in the King's army, strengthening the very fabric of holiness with your honesty.

One Gentle Invitation to Return

Right now, you do not need another obligation. You need a gentle return to yourself and to the Source of your life. Here is a small, embodied invitation, not a command.

The author of Duties of the Heart teaches that we can use the world as a "ladder by which to obtain proofs of the existence of the Creator." Before you go to sleep tonight, allow your eyes to rest on one small, tangible "mark of divine wisdom" in your reality. Acknowledge one detail of the created world that works without any effort from you.

It could be:

• The way a sleeping infant can drink milk without choking.

• The memory of a single seed you planted that grew into a vast plant.

• The simple feeling of shame that holds us back from harming one another, a silent protector of our humanity.

This is the very essence of "faith as an action"—not a grand gesture, but a small, deliberate turn of your attention. It is the quietest, most powerful doing.

Find just one. Notice it. And then, just whisper, "Thank you for this." That is all. It is an act of seeing, not striving. It is an act of receiving, not giving more.

You Are Not Failing. You Are Completing.

That single teacup, washed in the lonely silence of your kitchen, felt like evidence of your depletion. But what if that feeling of being spent, of being the foul-smelling part of the day, is not the end of the story? What if it is the beginning of the offering?

There is a deep secret in the Torah about the ketoret, the holy incense offered in the Temple. The recipe, given by Hashem Himself, contained many beautiful fragrances like balsam and frankincense. But the Torah commands that it must also include an ingredient called chelbanah, or galbanum. By itself, chelbanah has a foul, unpleasant odor. Yet, without it, the holy incense was incomplete and invalid.

From this, the Sages teach a profound lesson: a prayer that does not include the sinners of Israel is not a true prayer.

Your exhaustion is not a flaw to be hidden from God. Your feelings of failure, your moments of doubt, your silent, aching heart—this is your chelbanah. It is the necessary, honest, and utterly human ingredient that makes the collective prayer of our people real and whole. Without the parts of us that are struggling, our offering is not complete.

Your exhaustion is not a sign of your failure; it is a holy offering, completing us all. You are not alone. Take my hand. We will walk this path together.

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