Like the flour and water that form the matzah, each of us is born into this world—the fusion of two parts becoming one. Something new is created—so pure, so whole, yet so remarkably fragile.
At the Seder, like the children around the table, the matzah is showcased and celebrated by all. And like the matzah, the children too will one day experience an unexpected and inevitable fracture—a life-altering Yachatz. It is a moment of shattering innocence, when traumatic events forever break off a piece of them and rob them of their wholeness.
As we perform Yachatz at the Seder, we make eye contact with that newly broken piece of matzah. It is a sobering moment of looking in the mirror to really see ourselves and confront our own brokenness, contemplating the glaring question: How do we respond to the painful moments that have left us broken?
As a therapist, I commonly witness two differing responses to confronting one’s past and attempting to reconcile memories of abuse, bullying, neglect, loss and trauma. People will either take their brokenness—together with all of the paralyzing and gut-wrenching shame that comes with it—and, like the matzah of Yachatz, desperately try to hide it from the world. In so doing, they hold on to the smaller remaining piece of matzah, a reflection of their new identity: a diminished sense of self. It is that small broken piece of matzah that awkwardly strives to blend into the crowd, hoping to fit in. It returns to the Seder plate and settles between two whole, unbroken pieces of matzah, as if everything is normal. All the while, the larger, shame-filled broken piece just wants to be concealed from the world, tucked away in a bag and hidden—most of all, so that one’s children never find it. But children are smart, and when they do discover our broken pieces, the ones we’ve tried so hard to hide, all we want to do is wrestle it away from them. In fact, we will negotiate at any cost just to get it back.
The Yachatz experience at the Seder mirrors a shame reaction to trauma. As if shame itself were not painful enough, when left in silence and secrecy, it breeds and grows, leaving the holder of that secret with a life-altering burden. They are forced to exert a great deal of energy concealing their secret and coping with its impacts. Simultaneously, they must put on a show for the world and pretend—often overcompensating—in an exhausting effort to fit in among those around them who seem so perfect and whole.
The second option in responding to one’s traumatic life experiences is to confront, honor and fully embrace their story. Rather than hide it in the shadows, a person will bravely follow its trail as they come to understand that they are not defined by the unfortunate events that happened to them. People need not carry the crippling burden of things that were not their fault. Rather, their new identity becomes defined by the hard work they put in to heal—turning tragedy into redemption.
As the Kotzker Rebbe famously said, “There is nothing more whole than a broken heart.” That same broken piece of matzah could either be hidden away, or it could be found and celebrated. Indeed, the highlight of the Seder is when we reveal the Afikoman, demonstrating how the symbol of suffering has been transformed into a symbol of liberation.
How can we continue to reduce shame? The scientific literature on healing shame emphasizes that it disappears when one can tell their story in safe places. This is what good therapy accomplishes. It enables a person to safely revisit their pain, while learning to recognize and articulate a reality in which they are no longer defined by their brokenness nor their diminished sense of self. This is how one replaces self-loathing with self-love. It is no coincidence that the mitzvah of Seder night is storytelling—”V’higadta L’vincha”—to retell the sippur (the story) of Yetzias Mitzrayim. Thus, in a profoundly healing way, the Seder night encompasses the therapeutic formula of sharing the stories of our traumas in spaces that are safe.
What if this formula could be replicated year-round? Sadly, our communities often forget just how human it is to be broken. We tend to worry about stigma and shidduchim, perpetuating an inauthentic culture of false perfection. We hide our truths and our struggles, as if we are the only ones hurting. The pain of our situation is then compounded by the intense loneliness we feel—consumed by a shame we assume nobody else would ever understand.
Yet, seated around our Seder tables are real people with real struggles. One suffers from depression; another, anxiety. The person across from you may be secretly battling addiction, while the person at the end of the table works tirelessly to hide their childhood memories of being bullied or abused—physically, emotionally or sexually. One person carries unresolved grief from a tragic loss, while another carries shame and fear over the different paths their children are taking in life. Essentially, all of us carry pain, and like the matzah, we are extremely fragile. While we may not be able to easily erase the pain we carry inside, we don’t need to make matters worse by suffering in shame and loneliness.
Pesach reminds us that, just like our ancestors in Mitzrayim, our slavery was something that happened to us—but need not define who we are today, nor who we will be in the future. The broken parts that we all carry reflect terrible things that were done to us or the challenges that we were forced to confront—but they are not us.
The matzah stands as a reminder that what once was a sign of slavery and pain, when honored and discussed openly and without judgment, can now stand as a proud symbol of healing and hope. Thus, instead of hiding our brokenness and being ashamed of those haunting pieces we bury deep inside, let us transform those parts—like the Afikoman—and learn to stand tall with resilience and pride.
Thank you to Sara Yehudit Schneider, whose Haggadah insights planted the seeds to inspire this article.
Rabbi Dr. Ari Sytner is a clinical social worker and trauma-informed, Gottman-Certified couples therapist in Bergenfield, and a graduate professor of social work at Yeshiva University. Together with his amazing wife, Chana, the Sytners will be making Aliyah this summer and invite you to come along. You can reach Dr. Sytner at: [email protected]
