Generational Wisdom
By Rebbetzin Malky Goodman
Rabbi Akiva in the Pitt.
My accountant thinks I’ve lost my mind. My friends are entirely convinced of it. On some days, even my long-time customers look at me across the counter like I’ve completely fallen off the deep end. And if we’re being raw and honest? Some days I sit at my desk and think: What on earth did I just do, and why did I make this change anyway?
The Reality of the "Then"
I was recently watching the show The Pitt, and it hit me. The frantic energy, the constant problem-solving, the revolving door of people who need you right now—that isn't a quiet corporate office. It’s an emergency room. It’s the Pitt. Watching Dr. Robby Rabinowitz, the ringleader of that controlled chaos, I saw my own life. He’s the one holding the center, running from case to case, giving 100% of his soul to everyone else while entirely forgetting to take care of himself.
I know that feeling deep in my bones because for 21 years here in South Florida, that was my "Pitt." I lived a double life as Rebbetzin Malky and Malky the sheitel macher. My script was simple, predictable, and fast: wash and set, style hair, drink Diet Coke, and run until the wheels fell off.
Let me tell you what that 12-hour Thursday shift actually looked like when the three heavy hats of my life collided: It’s 2:00 PM and the salon is buzzing. I’m frantically writing a Kiddush menu with one hand while trying to make a brand-new bride feel comfortable as she navigates the emotional transition of wearing a wig. Suddenly, a wave of adrenaline hits because I realize I forgot to pull the chicken out of the freezer for dinner. My heart drops when I see the baby hairs on a sheitel for a 3:00 PM client aren’t thinned out yet, and my 4:00 PM appointment isn’t even colored. I’m sweating through my clothes, applying emergency deodorant in the back room, and praying to Hashem that no one notices the stray hair tucked away in places hair should never be.
Evolving from Ground Zero
But you can’t stay where you were and expect to move forward. They say your life shifts every five years, and it’s tempting to stay stuck in old scripts. What we did for the community five years ago doesn't always serve them—or us—anymore. Walking away from a steady income to become a full-time Rebbetzin with a salary of exactly zero wasn't a loss. It was an evolution.
My 2:00 PM hustle looks different now, but the intensity remains. It’s Tuesday, and I’m at my kitchen table facing a glowing computer screen. I have 21 years of people skills and empathy, but I have absolutely zero clue what Salesforce or Google Sheets is. I’m making my first spreadsheets, accidentally highlighting the entire screen bright red, and yelling to my husband: "Adi, is it supposed to look like it's screaming at me?!" Between figuring out the buttons, my days are full: teaching one-on-one Torah classes, transforming the JCC into our new communal home, and building modern systems to support people. People see the lovely Friday night dinners, but they don’t see the behind-the-scenes chaos. It’s 11:30 PM on a Thursday, the house is finally quiet, my kitchen is a disaster zone, and I’m peeling three cases of potatoes by hand just so our guests can eat, all while trying to remember my own name.
The Currency of the Trenches
Walking away from a paycheck for "zero dollars" sounded nuts on paper, but I’ve gained a different currency.
I have more headspace and intuition than ever. I’m more present for my husband and kids. The time I have to actually listen to how their day went—without checking my watch over their shoulder—is worth more than any paycheck.
Losing my father in the middle of this transition shook me to the core. It forced me to ask what truly matters and what our Chabad work is really built upon. This past week, my nephew Leime was in the hospital. In his honor, family and friends took on the mitzvah of avoiding Lashon Hara (gossip). My sister wrote: "Leime has never spoken Lashon Hara in his life." If you know Leime, you know he has never spoken a single word at all. But that makes him a true Tzaddik.
It made me think about all of us running around in our personal "Pitt." We read the Tanya and study lofty concepts, but what good is it if we can’t make it practical? Leime teaches us to use our ears and our body language more. We need to hear the full story, stop jumping to conclusions, and just be genuinely happy for the next person.
Malky's Takeaway
Tonight is Lag B'Omer, the yahrtzeit of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and a day of immense light. But we can't look at this day without remembering the tragedy that befell Rabbi Akiva's 24,000 students: they passed away because they didn't show enough honor and respect to one another, and because of Lashon Hara.
For the past two years, I’ve been calling myself "Rabbi Akiva" (and sometimes young Ahrehom, but Rabbi Akiva has stuck). This concept resonates with me so deeply. Rabbi Akiva was 40 years old—my age—and didn’t know the first thing about Torah. He had to start with a single Alef. But he didn’t just learn it; he taught it. As the Lubavitcher Rebbe teaches: If you know an Alef, teach an Alef.
When I sat with a woman recently and she looked at the Alef blankly, it clicked: we are all Rabbi Akiva. We all have to start from the beginning. Yes, new things are scary, but that discomfort is exactly what helps us build something greater.
We don’t need a polished script or a perfect exterior. We just need to show up, own our "Pitt," and really listen to one another. Let’s use our ears to hear the full story, let go of the judgment, and use our everyday sparks to build something beautiful.
I call it the Garage.
Most of us start there. Whether it’s a garage band, a clothing store in a spare bedroom, or a consulting company run off a laptop at a kitchen table—there is always a beginning. We look at people who have "made it" and we see the finished product. We see the "Top of the Line" branding and the polished success. But everyone has a "garage" in their history.
My kids always make fun of my husband, Rabbi Adi, for his "Top 10 Quotes." They go everywhere with him—from his sermons on the bimah to his classroom, and even to the kitchen table when he’s helping the kids with homework. One that he has been drilling into our skulls for years is from Pirkei Avos: “Da me'ayin bata u'le'an atah holech” (Know where you came from and where you are going).
For a long time, it was just noise to me. We hear Torah quotes and they fly around us like free samples at Costco—you take a bite, you keep walking, you don't really think about it. But lately, something started clicking. As I look at the life we've built, I realize that the "where we are going" gets so loud that the "where we came from" gets lost in the static.
That’s where the Emes comes into play.
Hi, I’m Malky. What you see today is success. And I don’t mean that monetarily—which is usually what the world measures success—I mean success in taking the random hand Hashem dealt me and playing it for all it’s worth. But it didn't start with a title. It started with a curse.
The Girl Behind the Fro
As a kid, I had crazy, wild, curly hair. It wasn't a "look," it was a burden. Every time I got lice, my mother didn’t have time to play games. She’d take the day off work to dissect the fro, but eventually, she’d just give up and buzz it all away. I’d be left there with a buzzed head, waiting for the curls to crawl back so I could hide again.
By 8th grade, I was done. I had one goal: I wanted my hair to fit into a ponytail. No more "Jew-fro." I started growing it out, and once I had enough to work with, I picked up a blowdryer. And I realized something: I was good at it. Not just "okay" for a kid—I was good at it without even trying.
That blowdryer became my identity. I brought it everywhere. It went to school. It went to recess. On Erev Shabbos, I was in everyone’s house, cord plugged in, steam rising, making magic happen.
Before that, I was "Quiet Malky." I was the girl who got lost in a crowd. Even today, if you throw me into a room full of people, my head spins. I want to find the nearest exit. But put a blowdryer in my hand? Suddenly, I have a voice. Put me one-on-one with someone in a chair, and I shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.
My Version of a Shidduch
I knew then what I wanted. I was going to be a sheitel macher. I packed my bags for Crown Heights because I knew that’s where the real action was. Hashem knows what He is doing when He finds you a shidduch, and He knows exactly what He is doing when you are looking for a job. I ended up under the wing of Chaya Halon in Flatbush.
That’s where I learned the Grind. In any business, the grind is what separates the winners from the talkers. You can be a prodigy, but if you won't do the dirty work, you have nothing. I was 19 years old in a boiler room, washing wigs until my hands felt like sandpaper. It was endless wash-and-sets. It was the "boring" stuff. But Chaya saw me. She saw that I wouldn't quit. She eventually trusted me to do pre-cuts, and that gave me the tools to stand on my own.
The 599 Basement
Soon, my little basement at 599 became my studio. This was the "Pre-Instagram" era. We didn't have cell phones glued to our faces. But the word spread. People were standing in line to get my cut.
Now, as I live that quote Adi drilled into my head, I realize it wasn't just about the hair. It was about the connection. People don't just want a wig; they want to be seen. Sometimes I feel like Spongebob—I just absorb everything people tell me in that chair. When you’re a sheitel macher, you’re a problem solver. You dissect a wig like a frog—find the problem, fix it, move on.
But here’s the Emes: being a "fixer" is a bad habit. In the real world, not everyone wants your advice on how to "fix" their life! I’ve had to learn that sometimes, the greatest gift I can give isn't the fix—it’s just listening. While I’m fixing the wig, I’m learning to just hear the person.
The Ultimate Pivot
I never imagined marrying a Rabbi. I had my life set. I had a massive business in New York and a future that was mapped out. But Man plans, and G‑d laughs. I fell in love. And when you’re in love, walking away from everything you built feels like the easiest thing in the world.
I landed in Cooper City, Florida. No customers. No friends. And a new title: Rebbetzin. I only have one speed: Full. So, three days a week, I would pack a basket of wig supplies and drive down to Bal Harbour to work in my cousin Rochel Katz’s living room. That was my Florida "Garage."
I was learning how to be a Shlucha and a Rebbetzin at the same time, which was the hardest "style" I ever had to master. I couldn't hide behind the one-on-one of my styling chair anymore. I had to face the crowds. I had to stop hiding behind Adi.
It was terrifying. But I nailed it. Today, I can say it was the "Gift of the Chair" that made me the Shlucha I am today. Your talent isn’t a box you stay in; it’s a tool that evolves. The garage band is always there to remind us that whether you are building a shul, a salon, or a family, you have to know where you started to know where you are going.
The 360 Pause: Why I’m Finally Picking Up the Pen
They say life begins at 40, but I’m 44, and I’m pretty sure life actually begins the moment you stop trying to outrun your own schedule.
For thirty years, I haven't just been "busy"—I’ve been a blur. I’ve been the woman building a business empire with one hand and a Chabad House with the other. I’m the wife to Rabbi Adi, the mother to six beautiful, loud, shoe-losing children, and—perhaps most significantly—the girl who grew up 30 years ago as the only family in the entire community with a brother with autism.
Back then, there were no "support circles" or awareness walks. We were the pioneers of a reality no one else around us even had a name for. That didn't just make me "tough"—it gave me a PhD in the Emes (the raw truth) before I was even out of high school. It taught me that if you want a path, you usually have to pave it yourself while everyone else is still looking for the map.
I’ve lived my life at 100 MPH ever since. If there was a wall in front of me, I didn't climb it; I drove through it. I loved the "office intensity." I loved the hustle. I loved building a business while I was still running my kitchen.
But then came the 360 Pause.
Six years ago, I lost my mother. Four months ago, I lost my father. When the pillars that held up your world disappear, you suddenly realize that you are the top of the line now. There’s no one left to ask for directions. You look around at your husband, your six kids, your community, and the 30 years of grit behind you, and you just… stop.
I looked at the scissors I’ve held for decades and the business I built from nothing, and I realized: I’ve spent 30 years in the trenches. I’ve learned too much to keep it all to myself.
I’m stepping away from the daily grind of the shop and into a new partnership so I can finally talk to you. Not as a "perfect" Rebbetzin with a filtered life, but as a woman who has survived the circus, built the tents, and has the scars to prove it.
I’m writing because "Generational Wisdom" shouldn't stay locked in an office. It belongs to the mother struggling with the morning rush, the woman trying to lead a community, and the woman nailing a professional presentation while realizing she’s three weeks late for the kids' dentist appointments and hasn't checked the school WhatsApp in four days.
I’m putting down the scissors. I’m picking up the pen. And I’m going to tell you the truth about the circus.
Buckle up. It’s about to get real.
Generational Wisdom: The "C-Student" Strategy
My mother was a principal, a leader, and a legend in the classroom. But here’s the Emes you won’t find in any educational manual: She actually failed through school as a girl. She wasn’t a star student. She didn’t have the pristine transcripts. But she was smart, she was worldly, and she saw things everyone else missed. It’s been six years since she passed away, but her "Method to the Madness" is the very definition of the Generational Wisdom I carry with me today.
The "Failure" Criteria
When it came time for her to hire teachers for her school, she did something that would make a modern HR department lose its mind. She refused to take the A-students. If you walked into her office with a perfect 4.0 and a record of easy wins, she wasn’t interested. She wanted the "C" students. She wanted the ones who had struggled, the ones who had been told they weren’t "good enough," and the ones who knew what it felt like to stare at a test paper and see a foreign language.
She believed that if a teacher had cruised through school, they would never truly be able to reach the kid in the back of the room who was drowning. But a teacher who had survived a "C" average? They could reach the A student, the B student, the C student, and—most importantly—the F student. They had the grit to get down to their level.
The "Only One" Training Ground
This wasn’t just a professional theory for her; it was her life. Thirty years ago, we were the only family in our community with a brother with autism. Back then, there were no "inclusion specialists" or awareness walks. My mother had to be the pioneer for my brother when the world didn't have a seat for him.
She learned how to look past a diagnosis or a grade and see the soul of the person standing in front of her. She knew that my brother—and the "C-students" she hired—had a type of intelligence that a standardized test could never measure.
Connection vs. Specialists
I remember her helping a girl with selective mutism. Today, that child would be assigned a team of ten specialists, five therapists, and a mountain of paperwork. My mother didn’t need the labels. She just made a one-on-one connection. No "therapy," no jargon—just getting down to that girl’s level until she felt safe enough to be seen.
When she passed away, we were flooded with messages from her former teachers. They all said the same thing: "She saw me. She believed in me." She didn’t believe in them despite their struggles; she believed in them because of them.
The Malky Takeaway
In this house, Generational Wisdom isn't about passing down a collection of perfect successes. It’s about passing down the tools to handle the failures. We are so obsessed with perfection—the perfect grades, the perfect resumes, the perfect "A-student" lives. But my mother’s legacy taught me that perfection impresses, but struggle connects.
If you’re a parent right now losing sleep over a report card, or if you’re a professional feeling "unqualified" because you didn't take the traditional path—stop.
Maybe you aren't failing. Maybe you're just busy becoming the kind of person who actually knows how to lead. My mother paved a path for the underdogs, and she built an army of incredible teachers because she knew that the best wisdom doesn't come from the top of the class—it comes from the ones who had to fight to stay in it.
That’s the Wisdom. Now, let’s go elevate it.
