Growing Into Giving: From Resentment to Ratzon

May I use you to flesh out something that I’m trying to get more clear about?

I’ve been learning a lot about a subtle but transformative idea: resentful giving is not actually giving. And in truth, it does not benefit either party.

When one gives (or gives in), because they feel like they have no choice, or because they feel pressured into it, or because they are too unaware of their own needs to make sure it is ok for them too, the chessed is warped. 

Take the example of shalom bayis. Sometimes a spouse constantly “gives in.” They don’t argue. They concede. They appear endlessly accommodating. But inside, there is hurt. There is pressure. There may even be resentment quietly building in the heart. That is not true shalom. Peace built on suppressed bitterness is fragile. It is not harmony; it is avoidance.

This realization raises a powerful question- at least to me. In chinuch of our own children and in our personal learning, we constantly emphasize unconditional giving to others as a beautiful and important goal. We teach about vatranus. We learn the powerful words of Michtav MeEliyahu, where netilah—taking—is described so starkly, and nesinah—giving—is elevated as the defining middah of a Jew. Our children grow up with star charts celebrating acts of giving in and giving up. We hold up our Imahos and Tzadikim as models of selflessness.

Think about Rachel Imeinu. When she gave over the simanim to her sister, could there really have been any part of her that wanted to do this? Wasn’t the gadlus precisely that she overcame her own will? That she sacrificed something so personal and so painful?

So how do we reconcile this? If greatness sometimes means doing what we don’t want to do, why am I saying that resentful giving isn’t real giving?

The answer, I believe, lies in being deeply honest about where we are holding. One of the most important principles in avodas Hashem is not skipping rungs. When we leap to an ideal that is far beyond our current capacity, it often backfires.

A woman might constantly host guests (or her own married children!) because “that’s what a good Jewish woman does,” even when she is exhausted and overwhelmed. Outwardly she is giving. Inwardly she begins to dread Shabbos. Her children absolutely absorb that tension. Instead of associating chessed with warmth, they associate it with pressure.

A child might give away his prize because he was told, “you’re such a Tzaddok with good middos.” But inside, he feels deprived. The next time he is asked to share, he clutches tighter.

When we feel squeezed, choked, or resentful toward the very person we are “giving” to, that is a sign. It may mean we are being too quick to be mochel on our own needs. We are trying to act like someone we are not yet.

What, then, is the avodah?

To be relentless in searching our hearts for emesdik feelings. “Taher libeinu l’avdicha b’emes”—purifying our hearts—starts with knowing what is actually in them. If I feel resentment, that is not a failure. It is information. It tells me I am not yet at the place of willing giving. And that tells me what Hashem wants from me right now!!

The goal is not to force ourselves to give while secretly seething. The goal is to bring ourselves to the point that we want to give.

How do we get there? Definitely not through guilt.

Guilt sounds like this: “What’s wrong with you? After everything Hashem gives you, you can’t give this up? Look at the stories of people who gave away all their possessions, their jewelry! You can’t even share your time/home/stuff?”

Children are very honest. When they hear dramatic stories of extreme sacrifice presented as expectation, their internal reaction is often to recoil. “If that’s what being a giver means, I don’t want to be that.” They may admire the hero—but from a safe distance. Not as something they actually can honestly want to become.

We need to inspire giving differently, both in our children and in ourselves.

We can speak and learn about how precious giving is to Hashem. We can teach and learn that we were created to emulate the Divine, and just as Hashem gives constantly, we too can give. We can emphasize that giving makes us bigger, not smaller. Richer, not poorer. That our “ani” expands when it includes someone else, which is the most amazing thing of all.

We can remind them, and us!,  of the schar—not as a bribe, but as a reflection of reality. Hashem values this because it transforms us.

And we are careful—so careful—not to make them feel guilty for not being there yet.

Slowly, slowly, their sense of self expands. At first, a child wants another toy. That is natural. Over time, through learning, modeling, and positive experiences of chessed, something shifts. They begin to feel the deeper joy of connection. They taste what it means to expand beyond themselves. And then—they want to give.

Only when giving flows from that place is it pure.

Does this mean we never act unless we fully want to?

No.

It means we learn the difference between stretch and stress in our avodas Hashem. (Pay attention, because this next point is big!)

Stretching can be uncomfortable. It can even be painful. But it is a healthy pain—the kind you feel when a muscle grows stronger. There is resistance, yes, but also expansion. A sense that this is good for me, that I am becoming more.

Stress is different. Stress constricts. It breeds resentment. It leaves us smaller.

When we act from stretch, we are moving slightly beyond our comfort zone in a way that aligns with who we are becoming. When we act from stress, we are bypassing our current madraiga and forcing an ideal that our hearts have not yet embraced.

Our task—as mechanchim, as parents, as ovdei Hashem—is to hold up the ideal of nesinah clearly and beautifully, while respecting the rungs of the ladder. To cultivate hearts that want to give. To model honest growth. To show that true greatness is not in suppressing ourselves, but in expanding ourselves.

May we be zocheh to build lives filled not with resentful giving, but with joyful, expansive nesinah—giving that makes us, and those around us, truly whole.

And also: may we be zocheh to be honest with where we are truly holding, and see the beauty and precociousness of that. 

With love,
Mrs. Aliza Feder

PS- As I was preparing this newsletter, I was feeling funny about the fact that it would be hitting your inboxes one week before Purim, but it wasn’t really theme-centered in the slightest. I decided to send it out anyways, because …..well, this newsletter is called ‘On My Mind’, and this is what is honestly on my mind. 

Then, last night I was learning Michtav M’Eliyahu about Purim, and he went into a whole discourse about why the acceptance of mitzvos was even greater at the time of Purim than at the time of matan torah. The explanation, says Rav Dessler, is because at matan torah, there was some level of acceptance that was forced. And when something feels forced, it cannot result in true love being built. He refers back to his famous Kuntrus HaChessed where he speaks about giving when you feel like you don’t have much of a choice is not true nidivus, and breads the opposite of shalom and ahava. Whereas after the neis of Purim, when the Yidden again took on the mitzvos, it came from a true place of bechirah, and therefore was on a more honest, loving level. 

Turns out I am completely on theme. Who knew?!