The Pesach She Was Supposed to Love

“I don’t want to go.”

Rikki said it quietly at first. Almost casually. Like maybe if she didn’t put too much weight on it, it wouldn’t turn into a whole thing.

Her husband didn’t look up from the sefer he was learning. 

“It’ll be nice,” he said. “You'll get to relax.”

“That’s not the point,” she countered.

He exhaled. Not annoyed. Just already tired of the conversation. “Rikki. We go every year.”

“We don’t have to go,” Rikki said, her voice tight, already bracing for the answer.

Now her husband looked up at her, surprise flickering across his face before settling into certainty.
“Yes. We do.”

There it was. The sentence that always landed like a door slamming shut.

Trying to stay calm, he added without meeting her eyes, “It’s Pesach.”

“I know it’s Pesach,” Rikki said quickly. “I just don’t want to spend it there.”

He shifted, the edge creeping into his voice as he moved into problem-solving mode.  “You won’t have to clean, cook, or serve anyone. There are shiurim. A pool. You always say you need a break.”

Rikki let out a short, sharp laugh that surprised even her. “So I should be grateful.”

He stiffened, immediately defensive.
“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied quietly.

After a pause, he spoke again, this time heavier, resigned.
“My father already booked the rooms. What am I supposed to say? That we’re not coming?”

“Yes,” she shot back. “Maybe say we want to make our own seder this year.”

He actually laughed. Not cruelly. Just… impossibly.

He rubbed his face. “You know Abba won’t hear of that.”

So it was decided. Like it always was. And suddenly she felt twelve years old instead of twenty-five. 

Everyone would call it a dream.  The lavish hotel. The sprawling buffets.  The tea room. The concerts. The pool. Inspiring programming.

But she didn’t want Pesach to be about fashion and food. She didn’t want her children learning that freedom looked like luxury. She wanted slow singing. Meaningful conversations. A seder that felt like theirs.

Instead, she felt like a guest in someone else’s vision. And Rikki would paste on a smile while something inside her quietly folded in on itself.

Her mother-in-law would be pleasant, but pulled naturally toward her daughters. Her sisters-in-law would move easily together, sharing jokes and updates. Her brothers-in-law were successful wheeler-dealers while her husband was the gentle, sweet yungerman. 

Rikki would smile and nod, acutely aware that she was the only one whose life looked a little different. She felt like the outlier.  The hotel would be full of people, and somehow she would feel alone. 

And then there was her father-in-law. Overbearing. Decisive. Confident. Opinions delivered as facts. Instructions wrapped in concern. A presence that filled the room and left little space for anyone else’s way of doing things.

Rikki watched what happened to her husband around him. At home, he had opinions.

In his father’s presence, he shrank. He deferred. He complied even when it wasn’t what Rikki wanted. And every time he did, something in her hardened.

By the time they would arrive at the hotel, she would already be exhausted from the emotional weight she had been carrying for weeks.

The resentment.
The feeling of being the outcast.
The quiet disrespect she felt toward her husband.

The shame for feeling it at all.

This was the cost she never knew how to explain.

By the first night, she would already feel her familiar mental loop kicking in. The replaying of everything that bothered her.

She would try to soak up the shiurim, the exercise room, the swims. The self-care might help. But underneath it all was grief. 

Grief for the Pesach she had imagined as a girl.

Grief for the version of her husband she wished would stand tall.

Grief for feeling like an outsider in her own family.

So, when we spoke before Pesach, we didn’t discuss boundaries or conversations she should have. No demand that her husband suddenly become someone else.

We worked on something that felt almost… offensive at first.

Gratitude.

Not the fluffy kind. Not fake positivity. Not “just be thankful and it’ll all be fine.”

Not pretending the hard parts weren’t hard.

But deliberately, intentionally looking for what was good. 

I asked her to make two lists.

One for her father-in-law.
One for her husband.

She resisted. “My husband, I can do. My father-in-law feels dishonest.”

But she tried anyway. Slowly, things emerged.

That her father-in-law was generous.
That he cared deeply about her family.
That he showed up. That he took responsibility.

About her husband, the list came more easily.

That he was kind.
That he valued peace.
That he was devoted to his learning, to his children, to her, even when he struggled to show it the way she wanted.

Then came the real work.

She decided that each day at the hotel, she would express one gratitude out loud to each of them.

Not to change them.
Not to manipulate the dynamic.

Just to redirect her own focus.

The first morning, she told her father-in-law,
“I really appreciate how much effort you put into bringing everyone together.”

He looked surprised. Uncomfortable, even. He brushed it off. 

That afternoon, she told her husband,
“I admire how peaceful you stay, even when things get intense. The kids really benefit from that.”

He stood a little taller.

The circumstances didn’t magically change. Her father-in-law still had opinions. Her husband still deferred at times she wished he wouldn’t.

But Rikki wasn’t spiraling.

Instead of replaying every overbearing comment, she caught glimpses of generosity.

Instead of interpreting her husband’s compliance as weakness, she began seeing it as his deep desire for shalom.

By the second days, something else surprised her.

She felt lighter. Not because the hotel had become her dream Pesach. But because she had stopped fighting reality in her own head.

After Pesach, when she looked back, she realized something. The hotel hadn’t been the prison.  Her focus had been.

And once she redirected it, she felt freer, even in the same exact setting.

Gratitude is not about denying pain.
It’s about shifting attention.

Where focus goes, energy flows.

When you stare at what bothers you, it grows.
When you intentionally look for what is admirable and good, even in complicated people, your nervous system softens. 

And when your energy shifts, the entire dynamic shifts.

Not because you forced anyone else to change.

Because you did.

Rikki didn’t betray her values.
She didn’t silence her preferences.
She didn’t become someone else.

She simply stopped feeding resentment and started feeding gratitude.

And that changed everything.

If you’re dreading something that “should” feel like a blessing…
If resentment is stealing your peace weeks in advance…
If you feel lonely even when surrounded by family…

You are not spoiled.
You are not ungrateful.
You are normal.

And you don’t have to keep bracing for family gatherings or holidays that stir up resentment and dread.

Now is the time to get guidance.  Do it before you have to walk through another painful Yom Tov. 

Schedule a free call with me here.

You deserve to feel calm and connected, even in complicated family situations.