ON STAYING GROUNDED

In the 1960s, comedian Mel Brooks introduced his “2,000 Year Old Man” character, engaging in improvised interviews with fellow comedian Carl Reiner. Reiner would ask Brooks questions about life 2,000 years ago, and Brooks would answer in an American-Jewish accented English, offering humorous responses that poked fun at human nature, history, and modern life.

The character’s absurd yet insightful answers often highlighted the continuity of human struggles and foibles across the ages. When Reiner asked him about ancient transportation methods, Brooks quipped, “Fear! An animal would growl at you, and you’d go two miles a minute!” The humor lay in its simplicity, but also in the truth it touched upon—fear has always been a powerful motivator, and in many ways, it still drives us today.

But in our modern era, anxiety seems to have become the norm. Poet W. H. Auden, in 1947, famously called the modern era the “age of anxiety,” a description that feels even more appropriate today. A 2019 New Republic article reported that nearly 20% of Americans experience an anxiety disorder each year, and over 30% will face it at some point in their lives.

But this isn’t just about individual struggles—it’s a collective issue. Society itself feels perpetually on edge, consumed by tension and restlessness.

It’s not just ordinary stress, either. Psychologists describe something they call Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)—a relentless worry with no specific cause, a constant mental loop of “what ifs” that can drain a person’s energy and joy.

A recent article in The Swaddle even called anxiety the “new normal,” blaming modern life’s relentless pace, constant notifications, and social pressures.

Social media, in particular, amplifies feelings of inadequacy and comparison, while global uncertainties—economic, political, and environmental—add layers of fear and instability.

The result? Many people feel paralyzed, unable to manage their daily lives. And let’s be clear—normalizing anxiety doesn’t make it any less harmful—it just makes it harder to see a way out.

So where can we turn for stability in such an unstable world? Judaism offers a powerful framework, not as a quick fix, but as a way to navigate life’s storms. At the heart of this is the idea of hishtavut hanefesh—emotional and spiritual equilibrium. It’s about staying grounded, no matter how turbulent life gets.

Sarah, our matriarch, is a perfect example of hishtavut hanefesh. We know this from Rashi. The Torah tells us she lived 127 years and then repeats (Gen. 23:1): שְׁנֵי חַיֵּי שָׂרָה — these are “the years of Sarah’s life.” Why the repetition? Rashi explains that it is to tell us: כֻּלָּן שָׁוִין לְטוֹבָה — “all her years were equally good.”

It’s a puzzling statement. “All her years were equally good”? Really? Think about it: Sarah’s life was anything but smooth. She faced displacement from her home, abduction by Pharaoh and by the king of the Philistines, years of infertility, and finally, her husband married another wife and had a child, Yishmael, with her. Eventually, Sarah gave birth to Yitzchak—a great joy—but then faced the stress of Yishmael’s bad influence on her son. Hardly a rosy picture.

But the point is: through all these highs and lows, Sarah remained constant—steadfast in her faith and unshaken in her character. This is the meaning of what is known in Jewish ethical teachings as hishtavut hanefesh – an emotional and spiritual equilibrium. Sarah didn’t let success go to her head, nor did she allow misfortune to crush her spirit. Her stability came from a deep trust that everything—both the joyful and the painful—came from the same divine source.

This perspective is an antidote to the anxiety that consumes us today. While we can’t control life’s circumstances, we can control how we respond to them. Judaism challenges us to cultivate this kind of balance. The Talmud (Makkot 24a) explains that the prophet Micah’s command: וְהַצְנֵעַ לֶכֶת עִם־אֱלֹקֶיךָ—to “walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8)—means navigating life’s extremes with humility and faith.

At a wedding, we break a glass to remember the destruction of the Temple; at a funeral, we temper grief with hope, knowing that life, even in its darkest moments, has meaning. Maimonides explains this balance beautifully in his Laws of Mourning , saying that over-mourning reflects a lack of faith, while failing to mourn appropriately reflects a lack of compassion. This is hishtavut hanefesh in action: the refusal to let the highs or lows define us completely.

Rabbeinu Tam in his Sefer Hayashar adds that true character is revealed during moments of crisis and change, whether for the better or the worse. He teaches that these moments are the litmus test for our inner stability and our ability to maintain faith and composure.

One of the great Hasidic masters taught his followers that everyone should carry two notes in their pockets. One should say:

וְאָנֹכִי עָפָר וָאֵפֶר
“I am but dust and ashes” (Gen. 18:27),

and the other:

בִּשְׁבִילִי נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם
“The world was created for me” (Sanhedrin 4:5).

These opposing truths remind us to stay grounded—neither inflated by success nor deflated by failure.

When you’re feeling overconfident, remember: you are but dust and ashes. And when you are feeling anxious, remind yourself: “The world was created for me.”

During the Hadrianic persecutions, Rabbi Akiva once faced an exhausted and despondent audience of students. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 58:3) tells us they were literally falling asleep as he taught—physically drained and spiritually numb from the trauma of Rome’s oppression.

Sensing their despair, Rabbi Akiva dramatically paused his teaching and asked: “Why did Queen Esther merit to rule over 127 provinces?” The bizarre question jolted his students awake. What was their teacher getting at? Rabbi Akiva smiled, and explained, “Because she was the great-granddaughter of Sarah, who lived 127 years.”

At first, the connection seemed obscure. The answer was even more bizarre than the question! But soon the point became clear: Sarah’s life, like Esther’s, was filled with dizzying highs and crushing lows. Yet Sarah remained constant, and Esther inherited that same resilience. Orphaned as a child and later crowned queen of Persia, Esther faced the terrifying threat of her people’s annihilation and rose to save them. Through every twist of fate, she stayed true to her essence.

Rabbi Akiva’s message to his students was unmistakable: “You are the descendants of Sarah and Esther. Their strength is your strength. Wake up! Don’t give up! Everything is going to be okay!“

And what about us? In our age of anxiety, we too can draw on this legacy. Whether life lifts us up or knocks us down, we can cultivate hishtavut hanefesh, staying steady and grounded through it all.

Winston Churchill once said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” That’s the essence of hishtavut hanefesh. It’s not about erasing our emotions but about holding on to perspective, knowing that every moment—good or bad—is part of a larger story.

As individuals and as Jews, we are heirs to a remarkable tradition of resilience. Like Sarah, like Esther, like Rabbi Akiva, we can take life in stride without losing our sense of self or our connection to God.

אַשְׁרֵינוּ מַה טּוֹב חֶלְקֵנוּ, וּמַה נָּעִים גּוֹרָלֵנוּ, וּמַה יָּפָה יְרוּשָׁתֵנוּ — Happy are we—not just because our heritage is good and true, but because it gives us the strength to live with stability, purpose, and grace.

(This article is based on a 1959 sermon given by the late Rav Norman Lamm at the Jewish Center in NYC.)