Living in Silence: Stress, Struggle, and the Nine Days

By Rabbi Shaya Hauptman

The Nine Days are here again.

Traditionally, this time is marked with customs and reminders. Still, for many people, there’s simply a shift that’s hard to name. The mood changes, and the usual distractions don’t land the same way. It’s subtle. It’s real. And maybe that’s exactly the point.

We live in a world full of opportunity, technology, and movement, yet many of us carry a quiet pressure beneath it all. It’s the stress of keeping everything together, the anxiety of not knowing what’s ahead, and the strain of trying to meet so many expectations. It builds slowly and often silently, but it’s always there.

In Jewish tradition, that feeling of disconnection is described as hester panim, the experience of G-d’s face being hidden. During this time of year, we live with that concept more openly. The destruction of our Holy Temple, the exile, and the heaviness of spiritual distance are not just historical ideas. They reflect something that still lives inside us.

The Torah expresses it clearly: “I will surely hide My face from them” (Devarim 31:17). Tisha B’Av is both the day when much of our national anguish took place and the day when we remember the pain of so many other losses as well. Even tragedies that occurred on other dates are drawn into this moment, as if the sorrow of our history has gathered here. It reminds us of what it feels like to live in a world where G-d’s presence isn’t always obvious, and where that absence leaves us feeling exposed.

What’s striking is how many people seem to be living with that same feeling today. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), more than one in five adults in the United States experiences mental illness each year. Most of these cases involve anxiety or depression. The CDC reports that the number of adults showing symptoms of these conditions has more than tripled over the past five years. That’s more than 57 million people struggling in a country with greater access to comfort and care than almost any society in history. There’s no shortage of things to be thankful for, and still, there’s clearly something deeper that remains missing.

Just recently, the Torah readings brought us the story of Pinchas. He acted during a moment of deep national crisis, stepping forward with clarity and conviction to halt a terrible plague. The people weren’t sure how to respond to him, and questions were raised about his motives. But G-d responded with clarity of His own: “Behold, I give him My covenant of peace” (Bamidbar 25:12).

According to the great 15th-century Italian Torah commentator, the Sforno, this wasn’t merely a reward or a symbolic gesture. It was a covenant of peace that protected Pinchas from the kind of internal breakdown that can shorten a person’s life. The Sforno explains that loss of life often stems from inner turmoil and emotional strain, but Pinchas was granted deep clarity and calm. That sense of peace gave him strength and vitality, where others might have been consumed by the chaos around them.

Stress and anxiety are not just emotional burdens. Over time, they wear down the body, cloud the mind, and slowly drain our resilience. The Torah knew this before we had research studies to confirm it. When we have peace inside, we can live. When we lose it, we begin to unravel.

At The Ark, we see this firsthand. People walk through our doors carrying the weight of uncertainty, trauma, and disconnection. Some are navigating loss, others are dealing with addiction, financial burdens, family strain, or the quiet ache that comes from being isolated or unseen. We try to help in ways both big and small by offering resources, guidance, or simply a place to feel heard and wanted.

What matters most in those moments isn’t always the solution. Often, it’s the presence. When people feel they’re not alone, something begins to shift. The burden becomes more bearable, and the world feels less distant. In those quiet acts of support, we do more than ease stress. We bring a little more light into a place that often feels dim. We bring more of G-d’s presence into the world, and in doing so, we’re changed as well.

The Nine Days ask us to remember what was broken, and they also invite us to consider what might still be repaired. When we respond to the needs around us, not necessarily with answers but with care, we begin to create space for something better: a sense of peace, a feeling of dignity, and the kind of closeness so many of us have been missing.

Let the work we do during these days and throughout the year lift some of the burden our friends and neighbors are carrying. If it brings us even a little closer to a world where the silence lifts and G‑d’s presence is felt again, it matters. May this truly be the last Nine Days we spend in mourning. We belong together, back in a rebuilt Jerusalem.