A friend has been sharing his pain with me about his heartbreak after a 10-month relationship ended—heartbreak that could have been avoided if he had been willing to fully commit to her. I listened, took his side, and held space for his pain.

A few weeks later, I told him my heart was broken too—but for a different reason. For two years, I’ve been grieving the war, the hostages, people I didn’t even know personally. My heart has been shattered watching my country going down the drain and my family and friends there suffer.

He told me he understood. But then he launched into how bored and uninvested he was with “this political problem.” He couldn’t just listen. He had to debate, to prove me wrong, to make it about his politics instead of my pain. He wanted me to hold his heartbreak, but he couldn’t hold mine.

Look, I didn’t need him to agree with me about the war. I’m open to political discussions – I can handle different views. But there’s a huge difference between someone who sincerely cares about your feelings first and then shares their perspective, versus someone who immediately makes your pain about their political stance. 

By the way, this same friend often complains about being lonely. He wonders why nobody invites him to Rosh Hashanah or Shavuot dinners. He tells me how lucky I am to have love, friends who care about me, a community that shows up for me.

I am lucky, but it’s not just luck. People are generous when you’re genuinely generous with them. When you bring over soup when they’re sick as dogs. When you listen to them without judging, even when they cause their own pain. You show up. You don’t have to grow up in a family of eight to form a tribe and take care of it.

Being a great cook definitely helps bring people together. But the real reason people want to be around me is because I treat their pain as if it were mine. It doesn’t matter if they’re heartbroken over a 10-month relationship or grieving their mom who died five years ago at 96 or dealing with a betrayal or a loss that others don’t understand—pain is pain.

Good friends don’t rank suffering. They don’t politicize grief. They just listen. If you want better mental health, if you want to feel less lonely, you can’t cherry-pick community. You can’t want the Rosh Hashanah invitations without showing up when your community needs you. You can’t belong to a tribe without being tribal.

Loneliness isn’t bad luck. If you want love and friendship and community, don’t ask “Why doesn’t anyone care about me?” Ask yourself: “How am I showing up for the people I claim to care about?”

If one cannot commit to friendships and relationships, if one cannot give as much as one gets, if one cannot become sensitive to other people’s feelings, one will always be exactly where one is right now—nowhere.

Let’s Make This Soup

There are many ways to express love and care. Words are nice, but a warm bowl of this soup or any soup is ten times more comforting when you can barely lift your phone to order takeout.

The best part: this soup is ridiculously easy to make. One pot. Five basic ingredients: asparagus, onion, celery, zucchini, and spinach. It doesn’t get easier than this, and somehow it’s one of the most comforting soups you’ll ever have.

Note: You can sauté the vegetables in the olive oil before adding water, but honestly it’s unnecessary. The soup is delicious as is. 

Tip: Dried onion flakes are optional but add extra depth. I make them whenever I have leftover raw onion since I don’t store cut raw onion. Slice, spread on a baking sheet, and bake at 250°F for about an hour.

If you don’t own an immersion blender, I highly recommend getting one before soup season starts. They’re affordable, compact, and incredibly convenient—just stick it right in the pot and blend, then rinse. When buying one, make sure to choose one with a stainless steel head rather than plastic. You don’t want plastic touching hot liquids.