Between the Shtender and the Silence

by a Yeshiva Bochur

The Bais Midrash is loud, but there is a kind of silence that can exist even there.

I arrive for seder on time, open my Gemara, and take my place at the shtender like everyone else. From the outside, nothing looks unusual. I learn. I participate. I do what is expected of a bochur who wants to grow.

And yet, beneath the familiar rhythm of learning, there are moments when I feel strangely distant, as if I am present in body, but somewhere else inside.

Some days, the words flow and the learning feels alive. Other days, there is a heaviness I cannot explain. A tightness in my chest before seder. A sense of pressure where there should be joy. I tell myself it is nothing, that I should push through. After all, Torah is life.

But when learning feels heavy, the questions begin.

If Torah is life, why does it sometimes feel so hard to breathe?
If emunah is meant to steady a person, why do I feel unsteady inside?
And if everyone around me seems to be moving forward, what does it mean that I feel stuck?

These are not questions I share out loud. In yeshiva, we are taught to persevere, to strengthen ourselves, to grow through effort. Struggle is something to overcome, not to dwell on. So I keep going. I smile when needed. I assume that if I were stronger, this would pass.

Still, the silence follows me.

What troubles me most is not the struggle itself, but the fear of what it might say about me. I worry that acknowledging it would make it real, or worse, that it would signal a lack of appreciation for the gift of Torah. I fear disappointing my rebbeim, my family, and perhaps even the Ribbono Shel Olam.

So I remain quiet. I function. And I hope that somehow, without my saying a word, it will be understood that I am trying.

It was a rebbe who noticed.

After seder one afternoon, he asked me to stay behind. There was no criticism in his voice, no urgency; only an invitation to sit. He listened carefully as I struggled to put words to something I had barely admitted to myself.

When I finished, he did not rush to reassure me or offer quick advice. Instead, he spoke calmly, thoughtfully.

“The Torah,” he said, “was not given to malachim. It was given to human beings. To people with bodies, with worries, with hearts that sometimes feel heavy.”

He told me that what I was experiencing did not mean I was lacking in emunah. On the contrary, it might mean that my soul was sensitive and capable of feeling deeply. “A heart that feels pain,” he said, “is a heart that is alive.”

He reminded me that our greatest leaders were no strangers to inner struggle. Dovid HaMelech cried out from confusion and fear, yet taught us that Hashem is close to those whose hearts are broken. Not despite their brokenness, but because of it.

“Not every stage of growth feels inspired,” he continued. “Sometimes avodas Hashem looks like showing up when it’s difficult. Like remaining connected even when you feel unsure. Like choosing honesty over silence.”

And then he said something I did not expect.

“You don’t have to carry this alone.”

He explained that speaking to someone; a rebbe, a mentor, or someone qualified to help is not a sign of weakness. It is responsibility. Just as we take care of our learning, we must take care of the vessel that holds it.

“The Ribbono Shel Olam is not disappointed in you,” he said softly. “He is with you at the shtender when learning feels heavy. He is with you when davening feels dry. And He is certainly with you when you are searching for clarity.”

I left that conversation changed. Not because everything was suddenly resolved, but because the silence had been broken.

In yeshiva, we speak often about growth. We speak less about what it feels like from the inside. Yet many bochurim carry quiet struggles, believing they are alone in them.

I am still learning. Still growing. Still figuring out how to hold both Torah and my inner world together.

But I now know this: struggling does not mean I am behind. Asking for support does not make me less of a ben Torah. And silence is not the same as strength.

Sometimes, becoming whole begins with being seen.

And sometimes, the most important conversation happens not at the shtender, but just beside it.

A Rebbe Notices

Not every bochur who is struggling will say so. Often, the signs are subtle and easily mistaken for fatigue, personality, or a temporary slump. Rebbeim who are attentive to the inner world of their talmidim often notice small shifts before larger difficulties emerge.

A bochur who is struggling emotionally may:

Appear present in seder but unusually quiet or withdrawn
Show fluctuations in energy or focus without a clear academic cause
Become harder on himself, expressing excessive guilt or discouragement
Seem tense or pressured, even when keeping up with expectations
Withdraw from informal connection, even if learning remains steady

What often helps most is not a speech or a solution, but presence.

A brief check-in after seder.
An invitation to sit, without urgency.
A tone that communicates safety rather than evaluation.

For many bochurim, the greatest fear is not the struggle itself, but the belief that naming it will disappoint the people they respect most. When a rebbe conveys that questions, heaviness, and uncertainty have a place within avodas Hashem, the silence begins to lift.

Organizations such as Bereishis Foundation work quietly in this space, giving voice to what is often unspoken. By supporting both bochurim and Rabbeim, they help create the capacity to feel the silence rather than rush to fix it, and to hold doubt, pain, and frustration with dignity and care.

Through its mentoring program, Bereishis Foundation offers chinuch insight and practical guidance to teachers and school staff, helping them recognize, reach, and respond thoughtfully to a struggling bochur, while preserving trust, kavod, and connection.

Learn More Here: bereishisfoundation.org

Reach Out To The Foundation: 407-208-2406