Dr. Dovid Lieberman

Successful Relationships with Impossible People

Imagine attending a talk entitled, “Dealing with Difficult People.” You cannot help but wonder whether some of your friends and family might be slightly offended that you made a point of attending such a lecture. Naturally, they wonder whether you are attending because of them. “No, no,” you assure them. “Of course not!”

But therein lies the problem.

Difficult people rarely recognize that they are the difficult ones. And sometimes, whether we realize it or not, we ourselves are that difficult person. At times, we even approach Hashem as though we were speaking to someone in the Mafia. We would never wish anything terrible upon another person, of course, but we might nevertheless find ourselves thinking, “Hashem, could You please take care of this person for me?”

We lament the presence of these individuals in our lives who seem to drain our time, money, energy, and emotional reserves. We convince ourselves that we would be so much more successful and capable of accomplishing so much more if only these people were not constantly consuming our resources. Yet what we fail to recognize is that every person who enters our lives has been placed there with extraordinary precision by G-d. Each relationship, including the most challenging ones, presents an opportunity for our benefit and personal growth. The question, then, is not simply how we can rid ourselves of difficult people, but rather, what are we meant to learn from them being in it?

Consider something you have undoubtedly experienced.

There is a particularly difficult person in your life who, for whatever reason, eventually disappears from the picture. Perhaps the relationship ends, circumstances change, or your paths simply diverge. You breathe a sigh of relief, believing that you have finally escaped the difficulty. And then, almost inexplicably, someone else enters your life with precisely the same personality. You find yourself wondering, “Where is the factory producing these people? Is there some enormous mold stamping them out one after another?” The reason this happens, or at least one way we might understand the experience, is that difficult people often present lessons we have not yet fully learned. Until we recognize the lesson, we may continue encountering similar challenges in different forms.

This brings us to the first and most fundamental principle of navigating difficult relationships: every person in our lives presents an opportunity for our benefit and growth, and we must therefore learn to focus on the message rather than the messenger. Chazal teach that someone who becomes consumed by anger is comparable to one who engages in idolatry (Shabbos 105b). When we become consumed with anger toward another person, focusing exclusively on what that individual has done to us, we lose sight of Hashem's presence in the circumstances of our lives. We overlook the possibility that this encounter, however unpleasant, may contain a lesson intended specifically for us. Intellectually, we may understand this principle, but something extraordinary happens when we begin to internalize it. Whether the difficult person is a friend, sibling, parent, child, or coworker, we begin to recognize that the relationship may offer an opportunity for growth. And when we start asking ourselves the right questions, we begin discovering the right answers.

Now, there is another principle that is absolutely essential to understand.

If someone in your life is emotionally unwell, whether formally diagnosed or otherwise, it is not your responsibility to fix that person, cure them, or force them to acknowledge reality. Your responsibility is to approach them with love and acceptance while maintaining appropriate boundaries.

Of course, the Torah obligates us to offer tochachah, constructive rebuke, when appropriate, as the Pasuk states, “You shall surely rebuke your fellow” (Vayikra 19:17). The Rambam (Hilchos De'os 6:7–8) discusses this obligation, emphasizing that rebuke should be delivered privately, patiently, and gently, with the genuine intention of helping the other person. At the same time, Chazal teach that just as there is a mitzvah to say something that will be heard, there is also a mitzvah to refrain from saying something that will not be heard (Yevamos 65b). The Rambam further explains that when someone has wronged us and is incapable of benefiting from correction, it may be an expression of middas chassidus to forgive the offense without confronting the individual, provided that we genuinely relinquish our resentment (Hilchos De'os 6:9).

If you have spent years attempting to communicate the same message to the same individual, repeatedly confronting the same resistance, there comes a point when you must recognize that your efforts are not producing results. It may be time to stop. This does not mean approving of everything the person does, nor does it mean tolerating inappropriate behavior. Establishing healthy boundaries is essential, particularly because difficult individuals often struggle profoundly with boundaries. When a person lacks a clear understanding of where I end and you begin, that confusion inevitably affects the relationship between us.

Consider the futility of spending five, ten, fifteen, or even twenty-five years trying to convince someone to recognize a reality they consistently refuse to acknowledge. Sometimes we convince ourselves that we are just one perfectly crafted sentence away from a breakthrough. We imagine that if we could only find the right words, delivered at precisely the right moment, everything would suddenly become clear. The person would finally understand, acknowledge the truth, and change. But if decades of explanations, arguments, and carefully chosen words have accomplished nothing, why should we assume that one additional sentence will suddenly transform the situation?

I was once speaking at an event in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The subject of my lecture was chinuch, and afterward, an elderly gentleman approached me. He was well into his nineties and wanted to discuss a problem he was having with one of his children. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked. He explained that his son was constantly coming up with harebrained ideas, getting involved in ridiculous schemes and foolish ventures, and refusing to listen whenever his father tried to talk him out of them. I asked how long this had been going on. “About sixty-three years,” he replied. I looked at him and suggested that perhaps it was time to stop giving his son advice. But he continued protesting that I did not understand the situation. His son kept coming up with these ideas, and no matter what he told him, he simply would not listen. “Has he ever listened to your advice?” I asked. After a moment's reflection, he admitted that he had not. Recognizing that our time together was limited, particularly his, I decided to be direct. I told him, “Then stop giving him advice!”

What makes this story so remarkable is that the solution seems painfully obvious when we are observing someone else's life. Yet when we encounter precisely the same situation in our own lives, we can become utterly bewildered. We can offer a friend extraordinarily perceptive advice, clearly identifying the problem and explaining exactly what needs to be done. But when we find ourselves confronting a similar dilemma, suddenly we have no idea how to proceed. This is one of the reasons Pirkei Avos (1:6) teaches, “Make for yourself a teacher and acquire for yourself a friend.” Even the wisest person cannot always achieve something that an otherwise foolish person may possess when looking at someone else's situation: objectivity. When we are part of the puzzle, when our emotions, insecurities, and ego are involved, our perspective becomes compromised. We cannot always see clearly, nor can we necessarily evaluate our circumstances accurately. That is why we need eitzah, sound advice from someone capable of seeing what we cannot.

Nevertheless, there are individuals who simply refuse to listen. I have been speaking with one particular woman for many years, and throughout that entire time, I do not believe she has followed a single piece of advice I have given her. I often tell her, “You know, there are plenty of other people you could speak to who charge considerably less than I do. If your intention is to ignore someone's advice, why pay top dollar for the privilege?” Her response is always the same: “No, I only want to ignore yours.” What can I say? I refer to her as my car person because I have discovered that the only way I can maintain my composure during our conversations is to be doing something else simultaneously, usually driving. Otherwise, I would go completely meshuga. And she knows this.

One afternoon, I was driving toward the Catskills, where I was scheduled to speak. It was getting close to shkiah, sunset, and Waze had directed me through a quiet little town. I arrived at a four-way intersection and found myself behind a driver who seemed determined to serve as the neighborhood's unofficial crossing guard. One car after another was being waved through. Everyone was getting a turn except those of us waiting behind him.

As the minutes passed and shkiah approached, I gave a gentle honk of the horn and exclaimed, “Come on! Enough already!” I had completely forgotten that the woman was still on the phone. Suddenly, I heard her say, “You know, Dr. Lieberman, I really needed to hear that.” Completely disoriented, I asked what she meant, and then realized what had happened. “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” I quickly replied. “I felt this was precisely the right moment to interrupt you and emphasize that important point we were discussing.” I proceeded to offer some elaborate explanation. And naturally, she still did not listen.

This brings me to one of my favorite illustrations, a story I like to call the zombie story. There was once a man who woke up one morning absolutely convinced that he was a zombie. He turned to his wife and announced, “I'm a zombie.” His wife looked at him in disbelief and told him to go back to sleep. But he insisted that she did not understand. He was absolutely certain that he was a zombie. After several unsuccessful attempts to reason with him, his wife finally declared that she was calling his mother. You would think the prospect of getting his mother involved would be enough to bring any man back to reality. But not this fellow.

His mother answered the phone and asked what was wrong. Her son insisted that nothing was wrong, but she gently explained that she understood he believed he was a zombie. “Mom,” he protested, “I don't think I'm a zombie. I know I'm a zombie!” His mother tried another approach, asking whether he did not think she would know if she had given birth to a zombie. He patiently explained that he had not been born a zombie but had become one later in life. Realizing that ordinary reasoning was getting nowhere, his wife arranged an appointment with a psychiatrist. They arrived at the office, and the psychiatrist asked what seemed to be the problem. By now, the man was thoroughly exasperated. He insisted that he did not have a problem. When the psychiatrist mentioned his belief that he was a zombie, he once again corrected him: “I don't believe it. I know it!”

The psychiatrist thought for a moment and asked a simple question: “Do zombies bleed?” The man looked at him as though he had asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. “Of course zombies don't bleed! We're the undead!” The psychiatrist walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a small pin. Returning to the patient, he gently pricked his finger, and a drop of blood appeared. The man stared at his finger in astonishment. For several minutes, he sat in complete silence, contemplating what had just happened. Finally, he looked up at the psychiatrist and exclaimed, “Well, what do you know? Zombies do bleed!”

And therein lies the lesson. Some people are so committed to their interpretation of reality that they will distort the facts rather than reconsider their assumptions. They will twist circumstances, reinterpret conversations, and rearrange events until everything conforms to the narrative they have already constructed. If you did not say something offensive, they may insist that you implied it. If you said precisely the right thing, they may focus on what you neglected to say. And if they cannot find fault with your words, they may scrutinize your facial expression, your tone of voice, or the way you looked at them when you spoke. Somehow, they will connect the dots in whatever fashion is necessary to preserve their existing perception. Rather than adjusting their thinking to accommodate reality, they attempt to adjust reality to accommodate their thinking.

In psychological terms, people may engage in various forms of cognitive distortion, interpreting events through assumptions that are not supported by the available evidence. At the more severe end of the spectrum, certain psychiatric conditions can involve a profound impairment in reality testing. There is an old joke that captures this distinction: “Neurotics build castles in the air, psychotics live in them, and psychiatrists collect the rent.” The point is that we will all encounter people whose perceptions are extraordinarily resistant to change. And when we do, we must remember something essential: it is not our responsibility to cure them, fix them, or endlessly educate them. We must learn to accept people as they are, rather than exhausting ourselves trying to transform them into the people we wish they would become.

Something remarkable happens when we embrace this principle. We begin to experience relief from the relentless pressure of trying to change another human being. Our relationships can take on an entirely different character because we are no longer waiting for that elusive, perfectly crafted sentence that will finally make everything clear. We recognize that unless the other person becomes willing to reconsider their perspective, no amount of explanation on our part can guarantee meaningful change. And this brings us back to the larger question: why are these individuals in our lives in the first place? We all have difficult people in our lives. Some of us may occasionally feel that Hashem gave us an extra sprinkling of them, but the reality is that every one of us must navigate challenging relationships. The opportunity lies in learning how to respond to those challenges with greater wisdom, patience, and emotional maturity.

Accepting someone as they are does not mean allowing them to run roughshod over you. It does not mean permitting abuse, tolerating manipulation, or allowing another person to take advantage of your kindness. Healthy boundaries remain essential. We can love someone without agreeing with them, care about someone without enabling them, and accept someone's limitations without surrendering our own well-being. But when we finally relinquish the exhausting mission of changing another person, something extraordinary begins to happen. We become freer, calmer, and ultimately happier, not necessarily because the difficult person has changed, but because we have changed the way we relate to them.

Emotional Reactions, Self-Worth, and the Ego

Just because someone does something we dislike does not mean that anger must inevitably follow. We often assume that our emotional reactions are automatic, that when someone behaves in a particular way, we have no choice but to become upset. People frequently say that our emotions are what make us human, but animals experience emotions as well. What distinguishes us as human beings is our capacity to rise above our emotions, to reflect upon them, regulate them, and choose how we respond. Between every stimulus and response lies a critical cognitive process, one that occurs so quickly that we often fail to recognize it. Whenever something happens, we instinctively ask ourselves a question: “What does this mean?” The interpretation we assign to an event profoundly influences our emotional response. When we interpret another person's behavior as a personal insult, we become offended; when we recognize that the same behavior may reflect the other person's struggles rather than our own shortcomings, we are far less likely to become upset.

I I want to share something that may save you twenty-five years of therapy. Some of you are probably thinking, “A little late for that!” But here it is.

Something happens, you take it personally, and you become upset. Something happens, you do not take it personally, and you are far less likely to become upset. It is that simple. If you want to become angry, frustrated, offended, or resentful, you certainly can. But understand that another person's behavior often reflects their own emotional struggles rather than anything about you. Stop making other people's problems your problems.

We tend to treat other people according to how we feel about ourselves. When we possess a healthy sense of self-worth, we are better equipped to extend love, respect, and compassion to others. But when we are deeply insecure, emotionally wounded, or consumed by self-contempt, offering those qualities becomes considerably more difficult. After all, how can we consistently give something we struggle to possess ourselves? The way another person treats you can offer a window into that individual's emotional world. Their behavior may reveal their insecurities, vulnerabilities, unresolved conflicts, and struggles with self-worth. It does not, however, establish your value as a human being, unless you choose to make it about yourself.

Now, learning not to involve your ego does not mean becoming indifferent to other people's feelings or opinions. Quite the contrary. When your ego becomes involved, you often lose the ability to truly hear the other person. Something they say touches a sensitive nerve, and almost instantaneously, your defenses rise. You become angry, frustrated, offended, or resentful. At that moment, your attention shifts away from understanding the other person and toward protecting yourself. But when your ego is not controlling the interaction, you can begin to recognize the pain beneath the other person's behavior. You may notice their insecurity, emotional fragility, or vulnerability. Instead of reacting with anger, you begin to understand that this person is carrying a peckel, an emotional burden of their own. If someone treats you disrespectfully, speaks rudely, behaves obnoxiously, or acts without consideration, that conduct may reflect their own difficulties. You need not interpret it as a statement about your worth.

What part of us insists on making everything about ourselves? The ego. The ego is extraordinarily self-absorbed. It has a remarkable ability to transform almost any situation into a story about me. “Me, me, me, me, ME!” Incidentally, that is how a narcissistic opera singer warms up. The ego has an astonishing ability to connect unrelated events and interpret them as personal. Two people are whispering in the corner, and we assume they must be talking about us. Someone cuts us off on the highway, and we conclude that the driver intended to disrespect us. A friend fails to return our call, and we interpret the silence as evidence that we are unimportant. Everything somehow comes back to us, even though much of the time, these situations have absolutely nothing to do with us. The challenge is learning to distinguish between what belongs to another person and what genuinely belongs to us.

This brings us to another question: why are difficult people so difficult?

One reason is that they often struggle with two seemingly contradictory needs. On the one hand, they may find it extraordinarily difficult to offer love, respect, and emotional connection. As Rav Noach Weinberg used to say, “If you don't love you, you don't love me.” A person who genuinely struggles to love themselves may have tremendous difficulty expressing love toward others. It is not necessarily that they lack the desire. Quite often, they desperately want to love, connect, and build meaningful relationships, but they do not know how. This becomes particularly apparent when we explore people's childhood experiences. And, of course, somehow everything always seems to come back to childhood!

I used to begin my parenting classes with the following observation: “You are going to mess up your children. The only question is how badly.” I thought it was a rather effective way of introducing the subject, until one day, a young child in the audience stood up, turned toward his mother, pointed directly at her, and exclaimed, “See! I told you that you messed me up!” I remember thinking, “Well, that certainly did not go as planned.” Needless to say, I stopped opening my parenting classes that way. But the underlying point remains important. When someone lacks a healthy sense of self-worth, they may struggle not only to give love but also to receive it. If I do not love myself, I cannot understand why anyone else would love me. If I do not respect myself, I cannot imagine why someone else would respect me. I begin asking myself, consciously or unconsciously, why anyone would love someone so unlovable, respect someone so unworthy of respect, or invest in someone so broken or fundamentally inadequate.

Because I cannot reconcile another person's affection with my own negative self-image, I may push that person away. Yet at the very same time, I desperately crave connection, so I pull the person closer. Then, when the relationship becomes emotionally intimate, my insecurities resurface, and I push them away again. I want closeness, but closeness frightens me. I want affection, but I do not believe I deserve it. I long for connection, but I struggle to tolerate the vulnerability that genuine connection requires. And so the relationship becomes an exhausting cycle of pursuit and withdrawal. One moment, the person draws you close. The next, they push you away. Then they reach out again, only to retreat once more. Before long, you feel as though you are spinning like a top, never knowing where you stand.

From the outside, the solution seems so obvious. We think, “You say you want me in your life. You say you want a better relationship. Then why are you making this so difficult? Why do you keep sabotaging the very connection you claim to desire? Why can't you simply behave normally?” But here is something we must appreciate: if they genuinely possessed the emotional capacity to respond differently, they often would. People do not generally choose to suffer from emotional difficulties. They may desperately want healthier relationships while lacking the skills, security, or emotional resources necessary to sustain them. Understanding this does not excuse harmful behavior, but it can help us respond with greater insight and compassion rather than simply assuming that every difficult interaction reflects deliberate malice.

Now, let me briefly return to the subject of childhood, because there is something particularly important to understand about the way children interpret their parents' behavior. Children are naturally egocentric. This does not mean they are selfish in the ordinary sense. Rather, their cognitive development initially limits their ability to appreciate perspectives beyond their own. To a young child, the world revolves largely around their immediate experiences. Consequently, children often interpret the way their parents treat them as a reflection of their own worth. Imagine a seven-year-old whose father returns home from work in a terrible mood. Perhaps he has lost an important account, encountered a serious financial setback, or experienced an exceptionally stressful day. He walks through the door, becomes irritated, and begins yelling at his child. Now, what seven-year-old is going to think, “You know, Dad must have had a particularly difficult day at the office. Perhaps he lost a major account, and his frustration is spilling over into his interactions with the family. I should give him a little space to decompress”?

Of course not! The child is far more likely to conclude, “Daddy is angry with me. I must have done something wrong. There must be something bad about me.” And if such experiences occur repeatedly, the child may begin to internalize a deeply damaging message: “I am not good enough. I am unworthy of love. There is something fundamentally wrong with me.” The child may carry these beliefs into adulthood, continuing to interpret other people's behavior through the lens of those early experiences. But something remarkable, almost magical, happens when we begin to internalize a fundamental truth: the way another person treats us is not necessarily a reflection of who we are. It may tell us considerably more about that person's emotional condition than about our own worth. And once we genuinely understand this, our relationships can begin to change.

There is another crucial insight we must understand about difficult people: we cannot always see another person's emotional vulnerability.

Consider someone who uses a wheelchair because of a physical disability. If that individual cannot stand up and walk across the room, we do not become angry or demand that they simply try harder. We recognize that the person has a limitation, even if we wish circumstances were different. Yet there are also people who, metaphorically speaking, are confined to emotional wheelchairs. They may be our parents, spouses, children, siblings, friends, or colleagues. On the outside, these individuals may appear extraordinarily confident, self-assured, commanding, and even intimidating. They may speak forcefully, insist on having things their way, and project an image of absolute certainty. But appearances can be profoundly misleading. Sometimes, the harder a person appears on the outside, the more fragile they are on the inside. Their aggression may conceal insecurity, their arrogance may protect a wounded sense of self-worth, and their need for control may reflect a profound fear of vulnerability. The tough exterior becomes a kind of psychological armor, a protective barrier designed to shield the person from emotional pain.

In many cases, this is the ego's way of protecting us. And when we begin to recognize the vulnerability beneath another person's difficult behavior, we become capable of responding with a very different perspective. Instead of seeing only the hostility, we may begin to recognize the hurt. And instead of automatically interpreting the person's behavior as an attack on our worth, we can understand that they may be struggling with burdens we cannot see. That understanding does not require us to tolerate mistreatment. It does, however, allow us to approach difficult relationships with greater compassion, emotional clarity, and self-control.

Emotional Limitations, Self-Acceptance, and Healthy Boundaries

When we truly understand that some people are, metaphorically speaking, confined to emotional wheelchairs, it fundamentally changes the way we relate to them. One of the most common mistakes we make in difficult relationships is confusing motivation with capability. We tell ourselves, “If my spouse really wanted to change, they would. If my friend genuinely cared about me, they would behave differently. If my in-laws truly respected me, they would make more of an effort.” We assume that the problem is a lack of motivation. They simply do not care enough, love us enough, or respect us enough. But sometimes the issue is not motivation at all. It is capability. Consider this: if you possessed absolutely perfect self-esteem, you would naturally approach the world with respect and generosity.

Think about the contrast between Moshe Rabbeinu and Korach. The Torah describes Moshe Rabbeinu as exceedingly humble, more than any other person on the face of the earth (Bamidbar 12:3). Korach, by contrast, challenged the leadership of Moshe and Aharon, declaring, “For the entire congregation is holy, and Hashem is among them. Why, then, do you elevate yourselves above the assembly of Hashem?” (ibid. 16:3). His rebellion and its underlying motivations are discussed extensively by Chazal (Sanhedrin 109b–110a). The contrast between them illustrates something profound about human nature. The more consumed we become with our own ego, the more reluctant we may become to extend genuine respect to others. When our sense of self-worth is fragile, we begin treating respect as though it were a limited resource. After all, I can only give what I possess, and if I do not possess very much, I become exceedingly selective about whom I am willing to honor.

I may extend respect to someone because I need something from them, because I want their approval, or because I am afraid they will think poorly of me. But that is not necessarily genuine respect. It is respect offered as a means of obtaining something in return. And the less I genuinely value myself, the more difficult it may become to value others without some ulterior consideration. Now, consider the predicament of someone with profoundly low self-esteem. Such a person may struggle to give love and respect, but they may also struggle to receive them. Consequently, they can become isolated in three fundamental ways.

First, they become disconnected from their own neshama. Instead of living authentically, in accordance with their deepest values and spiritual identity, they become preoccupied with maintaining an image. Their lives revolve around protecting the ego, preserving appearances, and sustaining an illusion of who they believe they must be. In the process, they lose touch with who they truly are. Second, they become disconnected from other people. Because they struggle both to offer and receive genuine affection, meaningful relationships become extraordinarily difficult to sustain. Third, they become disconnected from Hashem. The Gemara teaches that Hashem declares concerning an arrogant person, “He and I cannot dwell together in the world” (Sotah 5a). When the ego occupies the center of a person's existence, there is little room left for genuine humility and a meaningful relationship with the Creator.

Think about the tragedy of such an existence. A person can become alienated from themselves, from others, and from Hashem, all because their fragile sense of self-worth compels them to live behind a protective facade. Such a person deserves an extraordinary measure of empathy. And often, the reason we fail to extend that empathy is that our own ego becomes involved. We take their behavior personally. We become offended, defensive, or resentful. Instead of recognizing their limitations, we interpret their conduct as a reflection of our own worth. But if we can remove our ego from the interaction, we may discover that much of what troubles us has very little to do with us at all.

Now, you might reasonably object, “That sounds wonderful in theory, but when someone screams at me, it hurts. And what if their criticism really does have something to do with me? What if someone tells me, quite directly, that they do not like me and that they have perfectly legitimate reasons for feeling that way?” Forget the ego for a moment. Isn't that a fair question? Absolutely.

Let me illustrate something. Look at a table. It is a table, correct? Now, suppose I point to it and insist that it is a chair. What does that tell you about the table? Absolutely nothing. What does it tell you about Dr. Lieberman? Easy, people. I have self-esteem issues! It tells you that I have a problem recognizing reality.

Now, under what circumstances would the table become offended by my insistence that it is a chair? Only if the table itself began wondering whether perhaps it really was a chair. “I wonder if he has a point. My mother was a chair. My father was half a chair. Maybe there is something to this!” It reminds me of the old joke about a man who visits a psychiatrist. “Doctor,” he says, “I have a terrible problem. I think I'm a wigwam and a teepee. A wigwam and a teepee!” The psychiatrist looks at him and replies, “Relax. You're two tents!”

Our ego tends to become most defensive when another person's criticism touches upon something we are not entirely comfortable acknowledging about ourselves. If someone accuses us of something that is completely absurd, something we know with absolute certainty to be false, we may simply dismiss it. On the other hand, if someone points out a shortcoming that we have already recognized and fully accepted, we may be able to acknowledge it without becoming particularly defensive. The greatest emotional discomfort often arises somewhere in between, when another person touches upon a truth we suspect may exist but are not yet prepared to confront. That is when the ego becomes engaged.

And this brings us to an essential understanding of emotional health. Psychological well-being depends, in significant measure, upon our ability to see reality clearly, accept what we discover, and respond appropriately. Those are three distinct capacities: to see, to accept, and to respond. A psychologically healthy person strives to recognize reality as it is, even when doing so is uncomfortable. They work toward accepting what cannot be denied and taking responsibility for what can be changed. An emotionally unhealthy person, by contrast, may resist this process at every stage. They may refuse to see what is happening. If they see it, they may refuse to accept it. And even if they acknowledge the truth, they may remain unwilling to respond constructively.

Why? Because seeing ourselves clearly can be painful. There may be aspects of our personalities, histories, or behavior that we would rather not confront. When another person draws attention to those vulnerabilities, the ego rushes to our defense. In this sense, the ego can create an illusion of control. When I become angry, I may be attempting to regain a sense of power over a situation that has left me feeling exposed, helpless, or vulnerable. Someone has touched upon a part of me that I am not prepared to acknowledge, and rather than confront the discomfort, I respond with defensiveness. So the next time you notice yourself becoming unusually sensitive, irritated, or defensive, consider asking yourself an important question: “Is this person touching upon something within me that I have not yet fully accepted?” Perhaps their criticism is entirely unjustified. But perhaps there is an element of truth that deserves honest examination.

And this is why one of the most important foundations of emotional health is learning to accept yourself. The good, the bad, and the ugly. All of it. When we can acknowledge both our strengths and our shortcomings without allowing either to define our entire identity, we become far less dependent upon the opinions of others. This also explains why criticism from those closest to us can be so much more painful than criticism from strangers. If someone you have never met begins shouting at you on a street corner, you may find the experience unpleasant, but you are unlikely to spend the next several weeks questioning your entire identity. You do not know this person. They do not know you. Their opinion carries relatively little weight.

But when criticism comes from a spouse, parent, sibling, child, or close friend, the experience can be profoundly different. These are people who know us intimately. They have seen our strengths and weaknesses, our accomplishments and failures, our admirable qualities and less flattering tendencies. They know the good, the bad, and the ugly. And so, when one of these individuals treats us poorly, we may begin to wonder, “This person knows me so well. Perhaps there is something to what they are saying.” But remember, just because someone knows you intimately does not mean that their perception of you is accurate, balanced, or emotionally healthy. Familiarity does not guarantee objectivity. A person may know you for decades and still misunderstand your intentions or evaluate you through the lens of their own emotional difficulties.

Of course, we have an obligation to examine ourselves honestly. We must be willing to look in the mirror and ask, “What can I learn? Where can I improve? How can I become a better person?” But honest self-examination is very different from automatically accepting another person's criticism as an accurate reflection of our worth. When we refuse to acknowledge our own imperfections, the ego becomes defensive. Yet when we allow someone else's behavior to determine our entire sense of self-worth, we surrender far too much power over our emotional lives.

This is especially important in marriage. Your spouse is not simply another person in your life. Your spouse is your emotional and spiritual counterpart, your other half. Chazal describe the profound significance of the marital relationship, teaching that a man without a wife is lacking in several essential dimensions of life (see Yevamos 62b). Because of that extraordinary closeness, the way your spouse treats you can affect you more deeply than the behavior of almost anyone else. Even someone with a remarkably healthy sense of self-esteem may begin questioning their own worth when repeatedly treated with contempt or disrespect by the person closest to them. And yet, tragically, whom do we sometimes treat with the least consideration? Our spouse.

We may show more courtesy to the person collecting payment at a tollbooth than we show to our own husband or wife. “Thank you so much! Have a wonderful day! Stay warm!” And then we return home and speak to our spouse with impatience, irritation, or indifference. We must be extraordinarily careful. Words and gestures that might seem insignificant in another relationship can carry tremendous emotional weight within a marriage. Indeed, the Rambam (Hilchos Ishus 15:19) emphasizes that a husband must honor his wife more than himself and love her as himself. Chazal (Yevamos 62b) likewise teach that a husband should love his wife as himself and honor her more than himself.

More broadly, Chazal emphasize the importance of kavod, honoring and respecting others. Ben Zoma teaches in Pirkei Avos (4:1), “Who is honored? One who honors others.” Conversely, Chazal teach that one who pursues honor finds that honor eludes him, whereas one who distances himself from the pursuit of honor ultimately finds that honor follows him (Eruvin 13b). There is a profound distinction between the respect we owe others and the honor we demand for ourselves. We must be generous in extending dignity, consideration, and appreciation to those around us, while recognizing that our own self-worth should not depend upon the praise or recognition we receive. Genuine self-esteem is rooted in the quality of our choices, in the way we conduct ourselves, and in our willingness to live according to our values. It does not emerge from flattery, inflated praise, or the constant pursuit of external validation.

Let me conclude with another important principle.

Sometimes, what bothers us most is not simply the situation itself, but the fact that we have allowed ourselves to become bothered. We become angry, and then we become frustrated with ourselves for getting angry. We find ourselves trapped in what seem like impossible, no-win situations. Someone asks us to do something we do not want to do. If we agree, we may feel resentful. If we refuse, the other person becomes upset, and we feel guilty. Either way, we suffer.

But before addressing that dilemma, consider how readily we personalize events that have absolutely nothing to do with us. Imagine someone who becomes convinced that a fly buzzing around the room is deliberately trying to annoy them. “That fly is doing this to me!” Or consider how many people trip over a chair and then angrily kick the chair, as though the chair intentionally conspired to injure them. Come on, let it go! The problem is not always what happened. Sometimes the problem is the meaning we attach to what happened.

Now, returning to those no-win situations, there is something important we must understand about making decisions. The Torah is not particularly concerned with whether we happen to be in the mood to do something. The central question is whether the action is right or wrong. If someone asks you to do something that is genuinely appropriate, something you ought to do, then do it b'simcha, with joy, even if you do not particularly feel like doing it. But if the request is unreasonable, inappropriate, or contrary to your responsibilities, then you must be capable of saying no without guilt. That is the essential distinction.

And this brings us to the challenge of dealing with people who consistently violate boundaries. Such individuals often have great difficulty accepting the word “no.” You tell them you cannot do something, and they demand an explanation. So you begin offering reasons. But every explanation becomes another opportunity for negotiation. No matter what reason you provide, they somehow find a way to turn it into an argument for why you should accommodate them. “Why can't you do this for me?” they demand. You explain that you are actually in the hospital undergoing dialysis, only to hear, “Oh, really? Well, I suppose you're still able to keep the Jell-O down, aren't you? Surely you have enough strength to help me with this one little thing!” Whatever you say, it is never enough. The problem is that the person may be so consumed by their own needs that they cannot adequately appreciate yours.

And this is particularly difficult for those of you who are perpetual people-pleasers. You know who you are. The doormats of the world. Come on, don't be offended. Look at that! You're already taking it personally. Remember, it is not about you unless you make it about you. You know the type of person I mean. Someone says, “I need a kidney,” and you immediately respond, “Of course! Here you go!” They announce that they need another kidney, and you readily offer them the other one. When they ask for a third, you enthusiastically reply, “No problem! Let me see if I can find one for you!” There is seemingly no limit to what such a person is prepared to sacrifice in order to avoid disappointing someone else.

But here is something fundamental to understand about chesed: genuine chesed requires the freedom to say no. If you are capable of saying no and nevertheless choose to say yes, your giving reflects a meaningful decision. But if you feel psychologically incapable of refusing, if you cannot assert yourself or establish appropriate boundaries, then your apparent generosity may not be an expression of genuine freedom. You may simply be allowing someone to take advantage of you. That is not necessarily chesed. It may be exploitation disguised as kindness. And if someone is repeatedly taking advantage of your inability to refuse, the fact that you reluctantly consent does not automatically make the relationship healthy.

There are few things more emotionally empowering, and few things that contribute more meaningfully to genuine self-respect, than doing what is right even when we do not feel like doing it, and having the courage to refuse when compliance would be irresponsible. Both require strength of character. Both require us to act according to principle rather than emotional pressure. And both contribute to a healthier sense of self-worth. Now, to those of you who struggle with people-pleasing, I want to offer another perspective. If you cannot establish boundaries for your own sake, then establish them for the sake of the other person.

I often tell this to people who have spent their lives allowing others to take advantage of them. And they do not particularly appreciate being called doormats. They take it very personally! But the point is important. When you continually accommodate another person's unreasonable demands, you may be reinforcing the very behavior that is damaging the relationship. You are making it easier for that person to continue acting selfishly, irresponsibly, or without consideration for others. By establishing a boundary, you are not necessarily rejecting the person. You may actually be helping them recognize that their behavior has limits. So if you cannot bring yourself to say no for your own benefit, recognize that saying no may also serve the other person's growth.

Boundaries are not intended to keep people out. They are intended to preserve the personal space necessary for healthy relationships and meaningful growth. Consider the beginning of Sefer Bereishis. When Hashem creates the world, He establishes distinctions and boundaries throughout creation. He separates light from darkness (Bereishis 1:4), the waters above from the waters below (ibid. 1:6–7), and the sea from the dry land (ibid. 1:9–10). Creation is given order through differentiation. Each element receives its proper place, its particular function, and its defined limits. The same principle applies to human relationships. Without boundaries, we cannot fully develop our own potential.

If we continually allow others to intrude upon our emotional, physical, or personal space in unhealthy ways, we compromise not only our own well-being but also the quality of the relationships themselves. Eventually, resentment begins to accumulate. We may continue giving outwardly, but inwardly we become exhausted, frustrated, and increasingly bitter. The relationship becomes unsustainable because it is no longer grounded in mutual respect and appropriate responsibility. That is why establishing boundaries is not impolite, rude, or disrespectful. It is responsible. And our avodas Hashem requires us to act responsibly.

We should strive to give generously, extend ourselves for others, and perform acts of chesed whenever appropriate. But we must also recognize when our giving has ceased to be healthy. If you repeatedly find yourself feeling resentful after helping someone, consider whether you are truly giving freely or whether you are allowing another person to take from you because you feel unable to refuse. Resentment does not automatically mean that the act of giving was wrong. But it may be an important signal that your boundaries, expectations, or motivations require examination.

Ultimately, the quality of our lives is profoundly influenced by the quality of our choices. When we learn to accept ourselves honestly, embracing the good, the bad, and the ugly, we begin to free ourselves from the emotional constraints of the ego. We no longer need to interpret every unpleasant encounter as an attack upon our identity. When someone frustrates us, we can recognize that their behavior does not necessarily define us. We do not have to absorb every insult, personalize every disappointment, or assume responsibility for every emotional difficulty another person carries. If you want to make their problems your problems, you certainly can. But you do not have to. Their emotional struggles belong to them.

Your responsibility is to determine how you will respond, with wisdom, dignity, compassion, and appropriate boundaries. And when we learn to make that distinction, we discover a remarkable measure of emotional freedom.