By Mordechai Weinberger, LCSW

 

The call came from a respected mashgiach in a well-known beis medrash. His voice was composed, but the concern behind it was unmistakable.

“We have a bachur named Chaim,” he said. “He’s 19 now. When he came in ninth grade, he was brilliant, sharp, full of clarity and passion for learning. He had that spark. A true masmid.”

But the spark had dimmed.

It began subtly in the middle of eleventh grade. Less excitement in learning, moments of zoning out, slower progress. By twelfth grade, he was coming late to seder more frequently. Now, in beis medrash, it’s become a pattern. Some days, he skipped first seder entirely. Other days, he forced himself to show up, but by Minchah, he was out—sleeping through second seder like his system just shut down.

The boys didn’t want to learn with him anymore. He was once their favorite chavrusa, but now they described him as intense, scattered, even draining. It wasn’t just in yeshivah. At home, on off-Shabbosos, the picture was the same. He was moody, disconnected, short-tempered with his siblings, and hard to engage. His parents were struggling to understand what happened.

“We tried everything,” the mashgiach explained. “Warm rebbe’im, firm rebbe’im. Talks, incentives, even some consequences. Nothing is helping. We finally told him: If he wants to stay, he needs to see a therapist.”

But there was an important caveat.

“He’s not coming because he wants to. He’s coming because he doesn’t want to leave yeshivah. That’s the only reason.”

From the yeshivah’s perspective, therapy was the last shot at helping him regain his footing. From his perspective, it was just another box to check off. He didn’t believe in therapy. He didn’t think it will help. He’s convinced the issue wasn’t him—it was the system around him.

In his mind, the yeshivah didn’t challenge him. His chavrusas couldn’t keep up. His thoughts were too nuanced, the yeshivah’s pace was too fast, and chavrusas couldn’t handle his depth. The rebbe’im didn’t understand him; the system was too small for his mind. That was the story he told himself.

He wasn’t asking for help. He didn’t believe he can be helped.

The mashgiach also shared what the parents said. They’re loving, supportive people who were genuinely at a loss.

“We have a great family,” they told him. “All our other kids are doing well. Chaim was our star. He loved learning, even as a little boy. He used to come home and review what he learned with such excitement. He thrived in cheder, in mesivta. So what changed?”

They tried speaking with him gently. They tried being direct. They tried pulling back and letting him come around. Nothing worked. He insisted he’s fine, even as he seemed to be slipping away before their eyes.

They were hurting. They were worried. And they didn’t know where to turn.

As the mashgiach spoke further, something deeper emerged.

“I don’t think people realize how sensitive he really is,” he said. “He walks around with this tough outer layer, but inside? He cares deeply. He’s just stuck.”

It turns out his sleep issues weren’t about being lazy. He wasn’t just staying up to schmooze or scroll. He wanted to sleep. He tried. But his mind wouldn’t shut off. He lay in bed for hours, wide awake, frustrated. Some nights he didn’t fall asleep until 3:00 or 4:00 a.m.

And that lead to the rest of it.

When he missed seder, it wasn’t defiance. It was physical and emotional exhaustion. When he did push himself to get up and show up, he felt good about it. But by the afternoon, his tank was empty. He crashed. And the cycle repeated itself.

He knew something was wrong. He felt different. He wasn’t getting the chavrusas he used to get, in fact almost no one wanted to learn with him anymore. But he didn’t know how to fix it. He might not even have believed it can be fixed.

This wasn’t a child acting out for fun. This was a young man who’s hurting. And he didn’t yet have the language or tools to explain what’s happening inside.

And this was where the journey began.

A 19-year-old bachur. Brilliant. Broken. Sensitive. Misunderstood. Still, filled with untapped potential. A neshamah wrapped in confusion, fatigue, and frustration.

Therapy is not a quick fix. But it can be a safe space. A quiet space. A place where defenses can soften and questions can be asked without judgment. A place where emotions that have been shoved away can be given names. And where possibility can begin to reemerge.

In the weeks to come, we’ll walk alongside Chaim. We’ll listen gently. We’ll notice what he’s trying to protect. And we’ll slowly uncover the spark that’s still there, waiting to be seen.

 

Mordechai Weinberger, LCSW is a radio host, the executive director of Serenity Center Clinic in Monsey 845-286-2210, a seasoned social worker with over 20 years of experience, and currently completing his PhD in psychology. He is the author of three best-selling books on mental health and personal growth.