Dear old friend,
BS’D
Shalom!
How are you!?
(This is approximately an 8-10 minute read, enjoy!)
I’m still learning how to walk the tightrope between sharing and oversharing. One of the (many, many) gifts of doing inner work is realizing that sometimes the best place to be is in the sweet spot of simply being in the question. Not the answer, not the solution—just the question.
Tonight, after saying goodnight to my daughter, she pointed out what I confidently told her was a star. It was bright, oddly still, and absolutely not moving . Was it a star? Maybe. Was it something else entirely? Probably. But we couldn’t see the moon from her window, so “star” would have to do. She was fascinated, as only someone under two can be, and for a moment, the endless chatter in my brain hit pause. I was just there—watching innocence meet the indescribable. We sang how the kochavim twinkle and if you say shema tonight every thing will be alright. Then we waved and said good night.
It was one of those poignant, anchor-you-to-the-present moments. The kind that makes you want to write. Not for attention, or clarity, but just to mark the occasion. If not for you, or for myself, then for her. To have something written down as a testimony—a little edut—to these fleeting, precious moments of grace. Like watching my wife lull our daughter to sleep because I, very much, do not possess the skillset for such a feat. (in transparency, I started writing the below 10 minutes before being called for her bedtime, it makes way for a great intro though)
And now, with sweet dreams to all the little ones in the house, let’s talk about something a little less magical and a lot more… “meh.”
Let’s Talk About the “Thing”
Since May, I’ve had this “thing” on my nose. You know the kind. It’s not dramatic, just there, hanging out, being a “thing.” It wasn’t bothering me, (while definitely bothering my wife ) so naturally, I ignored it. But someone at my office decided my laissez-faire approach wasn’t cutting it and gently nudged me toward a dermatologist. (You know, by flat-out telling me to go & booking my appointment.)
This isn’t the main point of the story, but let me use this moment to give you some unsolicited advice: if there’s something on you or in you that feels off, get it checked. If you’re anything like me, and you’d rather ignore it, I hope you have someone in your life smart and loving enough to drag your neglectful self to the doctor.
So there I was, begrudgingly at the dermatologist’s office, meeting Tina, the PA. Tina took one look at the “thing” and said, “That looks like Basal Cell Carcinoma.” Now, let’s pause here. If you’re like me, the word carcinoma doesn’t land softly. It’s not like she said, “Oh, it’s a freckle,” or “It’s just a mole.” Nope. She went straight for the big, terrifying word: carcinoma. (If medical isn’t your first language Carcinoma is a type of cancer) My internal alarm bells—polished and primed for chaos—went into overdrive. Put on your seat belts boys and girls, this was not a drill!
“Cancer? What do you mean, cancer?!”
Tina, bless her calm and collected soul, assured me that if I had to have any cancer, this was the “good one.” Imagine that. The “good” cancer. She numbed my nose, sliced off the “thing,” which I’m told grew roots, and sent it off to a lab. And just like that, I was on my way with a head full of questions, a numbed nose, and no small amount of existential angst. This was supposed to be a quick Monday evening check-up. Surprise !
Fast Forward to Surgery
The biopsy results came back, confirming Tina’s hunch.
After a few rounds of Googling (which I do recommend, like any thing in ‘medicine’ or crypto, do your own research & then accept that you know nothing) and trying to process this new temporary chapter of my life, I went all-in and booked appointments with four different surgeons. ( I scheduled quite easily because Tina was right, this was common!) Eventually, I settled on the right team.
So last Thursday, I had Mohs surgery. It’s a charming little procedure where the endlessly cheery Dr. Bernstein carved out a chunk of my nose, and then another bonus chunk, and then sent me downstairs to plastics. Enter Dr. Wilson, who greeted me with a smirk and a classic opener: “You’re a bit young to be here.” (Thanks, Doc.) He reassured me everything would be fine, subtly raised an eyebrow at how much had been removed (cue internal panic that one must learn to hush), and performed a skin graft to patch things up. To his credit, he recovered quickly, but I definitely noticed the moment of hesitation. Let’s just say it’s not lost on me.
And now, four days post-surgery, I’m here: bandaged, dealing with an allergic reaction (because why not?), feeling all the feelings, and reflecting on some unexpected life lessons. Want to hear them? These are totally subject to change and apply only to me, but if they resonate, I hope they bring you some clarity—or at least a chuckle—on your own journey through trial and error.
Each day post-surgery has taught me something new. Here are six truths I’ve been chewing onwhile staring down this strange chapter of my life.
1. Healing on My Own Terms
Yes, I’m sticking to the doctor’s orders: rest, avoid workouts, and protect the skin graft. But can we skip the “think positive” pep talks? It’s not that I don’t appreciate encouragement—it’s just that what I really need is:
Silence (especially from my own overthinking mind).
A stack of books (because Torah truly is our lifeline).
The small satisfaction of organizing the spice cabinet or putting away my daughter’s toys.
These tiny, seemingly mundane wins anchor me. They remind me that even when the world keeps spinning relentlessly, there’s a rhythm I can create—one that’s quiet, intentional, and all mine.
2. There’s No Trophy for Pushing Through
Let’s be real: I’ve spent most of my life chasing productivity. But this week? My usual benchmarks have been thrown out the window. No workouts, no major accomplishments, no crazy sessions—just healing & trying to be helpful. And you know what I’ve realized? There’s no shiny gold medal waiting for anyone who forces themselves to keep up with an unrealistic schedule. Healing isn’t about achieving (or views)—it’s about listening to your body. Rest isn’t a setback; it’s progress in disguise. A quiet form of progress.
3. Crying in a Clean House Only
I’ll admit it: I can’t cry unless the house is clean. Messy spaces feel like a physical manifestation of chaos, and adding tears to the mix just feels... wrong. So, I clean. Not because I’m avoiding the emotions but because I need the space to invite them in. Is it a little weird? Maybe. But there’s something oddly cathartic about crying in a vacuumed room with a clean sink. It feels like I’m collapsing, but at least I’m collapsing into something orderly.
4. My Daughter and the Bandage
My daughter’s reaction to my bandaged face has been humbling in ways I didn’t expect. It took her a few days to sit on my lap again, and those days felt heavier than they should have. I’ve grown so accustomed to how she looks at me, and for a moment, that felt... altered.
Baruch Hashem today, she climbed back up and snuggled into my lap like nothing had changed. Together, we watched owls on youtube, and in that simple moment, everything felt whole again. Was it her or me?
5. Aggravating People Stay Aggravating
Here’s a revelation: if someone drains me when I’m at my best, they’re not about to become a beacon of support when I’m at my most vulnerable. And let’s be clear—this isn’t just about in-person interactions.
Life-altering moments don’t come with a magical “repair all relationships” button. (Sorry!)
Some estrangements are meant to stay as they are, and you know what? That’s okay.
Protecting my peace is a valid part of healing. I don’t have to pick up every piece of a broken relationship just because life has shifted. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is by letting some things stay in the past, or on social media.
6. There’s Only HaShem
At the heart of it all, there’s God.
Who sees me fully—bandages, scars, and all—and loves me unconditionally.
Who isn’t impressed by my insistence on crying in clean spaces or my attempts to find meaning in messes but walks with me anyway.
Emuna & Faithfulness, like healing, doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be.
Final Thoughts: No Trophy, Just Grace
The Friday after I was diagnosed I called an old colleague who had gone through her own cancers, her wise words were “Moe, allow yourself to have this experience, you out of everyone knows how much you can learn through experience.” My hope is that writing this is an unfolding of my own process, thank you Toby.
This week hasn’t been about “winning” at healing—it’s been about accepting it. There’s no prize for getting it right, just the quiet grace of showing up, bandaged, messy, and human. And in that imperfection, I’m finding something I didn’t expect: peace, well, almost.
Best,
Moshe Haim
P.S. Trust is a journey, not a destination. Be patient, dear ones.
P.P.S. Healing and self-discovery continues. If you feel the call to deepen this work, to truly step into the light of your own being, I invite you to join us at the next Hineini Retreat. It’s a sacred space where these shadows can be fully explored, embraced, and transformed. Come, be a part of a community that supports you in this dance of reclamation and renewal. You deserve it.
Because this image makes me smile.
Yes, there is a workshop happening in February.
If you made it this far, thank you!
Healing isn’t linear, glamorous, or easy. It’s raw, deeply personal, and full of unexpected lessons. Whether it’s navigating bandages, vulnerability, or the relentless pressure to "keep up," true healing invites us to let go of control, connect with our core, and trust in the process.
Dates: February 20–23
Location: Morristown, NJ
Pricing: Thoughtfully designed for accessibility, because growth should never break the bank.
