Grief Through Hakaras HaTov

Last week was a hard week of grief.

I can’t always explain why it hits when it does. This time it was the dishes. The grocery store. Fixing up a website. Driving in the car with no destination and too many thoughts. Grief doesn’t wait for a quiet moment — it finds you in the loud ones.

My mother’s sixth yahrzeit is in a week, and I think my body already knows. It’s preparing. Connecting. Like something ancient inside me is waking up and saying — it’s time.

And when I cry, I think. I think so hard it becomes therapeutic. It becomes growth. And the biggest thing that keeps coming up for me is this word: adulting.

Not the millennial version of adulting — the kind where you laugh about not knowing how to do your taxes. I mean the real kind. The kind where you look around and realize you are now the oldest generation alive in your family. You are the top of the tree. The one paving the way. The one whose children are watching to see how this is done.

And that is terrifying. And holy. At the exact same time.

Let Me Bring You Into My House on a Sunday Morning

Our parents didn’t sit us down and dive deep into our feelings. I’m sure anyone from my generation knows exactly what I’m talking about. There were no “I love yous” at the end of every conversation. But that didn’t mean they didn’t love us. Their love language wasn’t words. It was action. Pure, relentless, get-up-and-move action.

So let me bring you into my home on a Sunday morning when I was a kid.

Seven AM. My mother’s voice. And we jumped right up — because we knew. It was serious time.

We all got up, cleaned our rooms, and cleaned the house. One kid on vacuum duty. One wiping down every surface. One on laundry. One on bathrooms. And my father? He had the Windex bottle. That was his move. If you were still holding a Windex bottle it meant you were still in cleaning mode — and my father held that bottle like it was his entire identity. She had everyone on duty. Everyone. My siblings. My father. I’m pretty sure if the neighbors had knocked on the door at the wrong moment she would have handed them a mop and pointed them toward the kitchen.

Sometimes there was laughter. Sometimes there was fighting. But we all understood the mission. While every single one of my friends was sleeping until noon, by 10 AM we had a sparkling clean house, everyone was dressed, and we were out the door.

Sometimes it was the Oxnard outlets. Sometimes it was packing up and driving out to our favorite quiet spot just beyond Malibu beach. And those days? Those days were really, really fun.

Here’s what gets me now, standing on this side of it: the same energy my mother brought to getting us off our beds and into full soldier mode on a Sunday morning was the exact same energy she brought shopping. She would throw more outfits over the dressing room door than anyone I have ever known in my life. She had every corner of the Max Studio outlet memorized in the back of her mind like it was a second home. Incredible taste. An eye for a good sale. And she was relentless and joyful at the exact same time.

Structure. Then pivot. Work hard. Then play hard. Same woman. Same morning. Same love.

What Hakaras HaTov Actually Means

I used to think hakaras hatov was just saying thank you. But grief teaches you something different. Grief teaches you that real gratitude isn’t a word — it’s a recognition. It’s looking at who you are and slowly, sometimes painfully, tracing it all the way back.

I see my mother’s eyes in myself now. The ones that say: don’t mess with me right now, we have a job to do. I feel her in the way I move through a room when things need to get done. And I also feel her in the way I know how to pivot — how to flip the switch from serious to fun, from structure to joy, from soldier mode to Malibu beach.

Understanding generational wisdom isn’t about reciting the lessons your parents taught you. It’s about living them. It’s realizing that what your parents gave you wasn’t always wrapped up neatly with words and warm conversations — sometimes it was a 7 AM wake-up call, a vacuum cleaner, and a father wandering the halls with a Windex bottle still technically on duty.

And now I stand here as the oldest generation in my family tree, asking myself the same questions my mother must have asked herself on those Sunday mornings. How am I showing up? What am I teaching? Am I giving them enough? Will they carry this forward?

I don’t have all the answers yet. But I have her eyes. I have her pivot. I have her relentless, joyful, unstoppable way of loving without always saying the words out loud.

And honestly? I think that’s exactly enough to build the next generation on.

The Search for the "Emes" Laugh

Lately, I’ve been searching for a laugh. And I don’t mean a polite giggle, a quick chuckle, or the modern, digital shorthand of typing “LOL” on a glowing screen.

I am searching for that raw, visceral, can’t-breathe kind of laughter. The kind where you laugh so hard you literally fall off your chair, pee your pants a little, and choke on your own saliva. I want the kind of joy that forces tears to roll down my cheeks and snot to roll down my nose.

It feels like it’s been a long time since I laughed like that. Everything feels so heavy these days. It’s like society has become too serious, too rigid, and too wrapped up in perfection. Sadness and stress are highly contagious—but thank God, so is laughter. So as the summer rolls in and the crazy pace of the year finally slows down, I’m on a mission to figure out how we can make joy the easy part again.

Generational Wisdom and the COVID Video

When I think about the ultimate master of the "pee-your-pants" laugh, I think of my mother, a"h. She didn’t just laugh; she let joy completely hijack her entire body.

There is an amazing video of my parents from the COVID days—remember those bizarre times when we couldn't actually be at a simcha and had to send video messages instead? My parents were sitting at their dining room table to wish my nephew a Mazal Tov on his Bar Mitzvah. My father was doing what he did best: talking, giving brachas, and sharing a deep devar Torah.

The camera was rolling, and my father just kept going and going. My mother, sitting right next to him, kept subtly hitting him under the table to get him to wrap it up. He either didn’t notice or completely ignored her. Finally, she just couldn’t take it anymore. She cracked. She started laughing so hard she was practically falling off her chair, tears streaming down her face. And guess what? My father, completely unphased, just kept right on talking, delivering his blessings to the camera while the table shook from her laughter.

It was such a small, absurd moment, but it went such a long way. Is it that we aren't happy enough on a baseline level anymore, so reaching that true, emes (authentic) laughter feels like too much effort?

From Fire and Nose-Smoke to a Shared Joke

To understand how I look for joy today, I have to talk about my connection with Hashem. It has undergone a massive, beautiful transformation over the course of my life, moving away from a fear-based relationship and into one built entirely on joy.

When I was a child, the generation we grew up in—both at home and in school—often taught a fear-based Hashem. The image I held in my mind was of a massive, angry, powerful man with fire and smoke coming out of His ears and nose. It wasn’t just a fear of punishment; it was a devastating fear of disappointment. I felt like I was constantly messing up, and that because of my mistakes, Hashem didn't even want to look at us. Back then, I never had my own, organic conversations with Him. Prayer was something I did only when prompted.

As I grew up and consciously worked on my relationship with God, it became deeply personal. I started talking to Hashem out loud when I was struggling. In the past, those conversations were heavy—making promises, trying to do a good deed, just hoping He would turn His face back toward me and that the anger would be gone.

But where I am at these days? I laugh with Hashem. I find Him absolutely hysterical. I can literally feel us laughing together. I feel Him playing harmless little pranks on me, and through that humor, I feel Him guiding me. Because the truth is, this is exactly the kind of relationship Hashem wants from us. He doesn’t want a relationship built only on restriction and fear. Hashem wants us to be able to bring every single emotion and every single feeling to Him. He wants the real us—the laughing us, the crying us, the frustrated us.

Parent Lessons, the Tanya, and Listening from Shamayim

We are taught in Torah that Hashem is compared to our parent. As a mother to six children—and yes, five of them are teenagers right now—I am always giving out life lessons or rebukes. But I know exactly where it comes from. It doesn't come from a place of fiery anger; it comes entirely from love, teaching, and wanting to guide them.

And just like Hashem, as parents, we want the exact same thing from our kids. We want them to feel safe enough to show us every emotion they have, even when it’s hard for us to hear it. We want the full, honest relationship.

The fact that both of my parents are now in Shamayim (heaven) has actually helped me connect to Hashem even better. Just like I still maintain an unbelievable connection to my mother and father even though they aren't physically here, my relationship with Hashem flows the same way. And honestly? My connection to my parents is almost better now because I can say whatever I want to them, and there is so much more uninterrupted listening going on!

That is how I find Hashem today. He is there. He is teaching, He is pranking, and His wisdom shows up in the most unexpected aspects of my day. He is the one who can make me laugh so hard that the tears come down.

The Summer Challenge

So, what makes you laugh? For some people, it’s slapstick comedy or someone slipping on a banana peel. For some, honestly, it’s a perfectly timed fart or a loud burp that breaks a quiet room. For others, it’s stand-up comedy. Whatever it is for you, let’s use this summer shift to find it again.

But as the sun comes rolling along, my challenge to myself, and to all of you, goes a little deeper than just a good joke. Yes, let's sit around the dinner table with our families, put the phones completely away in another room, and find something silly to laugh about until it hurts.

But let’s also use this slower summer season to work on all of our emotions. Let's make space to laugh, to cry, and to really feel with our kids, our spouses, and our friends. According to the Tanya, when we allow ourselves to feel our emotions, understand them, and ultimately bring them into healthy control, our ability to connect to Hashem and serve Him becomes absolutely endless. We open up the floodgates of our souls.

Laughter truly is the best medicine Hashem gave us, but the freedom to feel everything is the ultimate gift. Let’s stop typing "LOL," start falling off our chairs again, and bring our whole selves to the table.

Gratitude

If you read my last article, you might be wondering, “Wow, was the wig world really that bad?” Let me set the record straight right now: it was all that good.

Yes, writing about my personal growth means sharing the challenges that helped me grow. But growth doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and it doesn't happen without a lot of blessings along the way. Today, I want to shift the focus entirely to gratitude. I want to talk about two beautiful things that I hold so close to my heart: how my sheitel world became my community, and the secret tzedakah opportunities that fueled my soul for years.

The Meal Train from Miami Beach

Let’s start with a story. Ten years ago, just a week before Shavuot—which is prime time in the sheitel world, right in the thick of holiday rush and wedding season—I found out I was newly pregnant with my daughter, Adina. She was baby number six, and I had never really been sick during pregnancy before. But this time? I was so sick.

I ended up in the hospital, finding out that I had gallstones stuck in my ducts, and it was affecting my liver. There I was, stuck in a hospital bed, unsure if they could even perform surgery on a pregnant woman. What should have been a simple, one-day procedure turned into a whole week-long ordeal.

I finally came home right before the three-day Yom Tov. I was weak, exhausted, and completely unready. But my sheitel community? They quietly rallied together. They made my family the entire Yom Tov—all six meals. One incredible friend actually drove all the way up from Miami Beach just to visit me and drop off food.

I will always, always remember that moment. It was the moment I realized that even though I didn’t live in a traditionally religious neighborhood, I had the exact same warmth, love, and connection right here. Building those friendships along the way was just incredible. I got to be a part of so many simchas, from births to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, all the way to watching their children walk down the aisle. How many people can say they have a contact list of 700 true friendships?

Even though my days are completely full now running our Chabad House, I deeply miss those one-on-one chats in the chair—the deep life philosophies and learning so much from so many different people. It was a gift, and I’ll cherish it for a lifetime.

The Secret Crown: Tzedakah in the Chair

Now let’s talk about the tzedakah aspect. This is something I have never talked about publicly. I was never ready to, because honestly, it wouldn't have worked if it was out in the open.

When you sat down in my chair, you never knew if the person who sat there before you, or the one coming in after you, was a recipient of this beautiful mitzvah. Two amazing people helped me anchor this project. We had a bond so deep we barely had to speak; they would call me up and say, "We have another one," and we’d do it. Or I would call them to ask for help, and they stepped right up.

But once again, my sheitel community always kicked in. So many of you pitched in at the drop of a hat. Just one phone call, and within an hour, the costs of these wigs were covered. And let me tell you—there were no "leftover" wigs for these women to choose from. They got the exact same pride, the same top-tier batch, and the same specialized care as if they were walking in and purchasing the most expensive piece themselves.

The joy we all brought to their lives is something I can't even fully measure. Can you imagine walking your daughter down the aisle at her wedding in a brand-new wig, something you haven't been able to do for yourself in over ten years? Can you imagine walking into a school to teach your students feeling completely confident and beautiful? There are literally hundreds of women right here in South Florida walking around with this beautiful, hidden mitzvah on their heads.

Why am I talking about this now? Because Hashem gives every single one of us a supernatural talent. Just last week, one of our Bar Mitzvah boys spoke about how he can hit a golf ball like a total pro. In his speech, he thanked Hashem for this supernatural gift. We all have one. And when you recognize your talent and use it for mitzvos? That becomes your fuel. For me, that tzedakah was the fuel that kept me going through the craziest seasons.

Yes, any business can be hard. It comes with its long hours and its careless or difficult customers. But it also comes with the power to build a community, and that is what I was gifted with.

I miss being able to do those specific, hands-on mitzvos daily. But I will never forget them. And just like the wind, when one door closes, we simply shift that energy over to the next mitzvah Hashem puts in front of us. And remember, even though the shop days are over, I'm always here to meet up and have a coffee with anyone beyond the chair.

With so much gratitude,
Me

The Shavuot Shift: From People-Pleasing to Hashem-Pleasing

We’ve all been there, holding the dark cloud so close we mistake it for a security blanket. It starts when we’re little, doesn't it? The desperate need to fit in. We copy the clothing, we mimic the makeup, we tweak the way we talk, and we even get into the "right" kind of trouble—all just to be seen and heard. "Seen and heard." Man, those words are so overused these days. But what we’re actually begging for is what our parents used to call generational wisdom: “Can you put yourself in my shoes for just a few minutes?”

But in a fast-paced world overflowing with information, we forget to actually internalize and apply it. Instead, we fall into the trap of the ultimate joy-suckers: people-pleasing and one-upping. I’ll be raw with you: I am so guilty of this. For years, I lived in both of my worlds—the sheitel world and the Shluchos world—running on the fumes of validation. I remember the madness before Yom Tov. The store was officially closed for the season, but someone would call, and I’d take their wig anyway. Why? Because I didn't want to disappoint them. I didn't want them to have a single bad thought about me. I wanted to fit in, and I wanted everyone to say only good things.

But let’s be totally honest. They didn't put themselves in my shoes. They just wanted their wigs washed before Yom Tov. My boundary-less giving didn't make them care about me more; it just turned me into their doormat. And after many years, that cycle does something ugly to your soul. Resentment turns into anger. Anger turns into self-hate. But wait for it… because that self-hate led me to my ultimate aha! moment. In Chassidus, we talk about tzimtzum—contraction, creating a space. I had to contract the noise to find my boundaries. (Yes, another overused 2026 buzzword, but we’re going with it!)

Setting boundaries means you lose some things, and you gain others. You lose the people who only liked you when you were running yourself ragged for them. But what you gain? You gain you. You realize you are worth it. When you do something because you are uniquely gifted by Hashem, it is so much more powerful than doing it while whispering, "Will you still like me if I say no?" Lately, I feel the shift. Some days I am much quieter. But other days? I feel a lion’s roar building up inside me. A lion’s roar is pure confidence. He knows his roar might alarm the good and the bad alike, but he lets it out anyway, knowing the bad will be drowned out and the good will remain.

The Har Sinai Reality Check

This brings us right to Shavuot. In the secular world, it’s practically a foreign holiday. But in my eyes? Shavuot is number one. Think about the concept of Bnei Yisrael camping together at Har Sinai. They arrived as individuals. I am sure there was plenty of one-upping, self-doubt, and comparison going on as everyone pitched their tents. But then, something miraculous happened. We said Naaseh V’Nishma (" We will do and we will hear"). We realized we were all there for the exact same purpose, and we became Ke’ish echad b’lev echad—like one person with one heart.

That was the ultimate moment of getting into each other's shoes. Truly being seen. Taking care of someone else the way you’d want to be taken care of, backed by the profound knowledge that every single person there was being given the exact same Torah and the exact same connection to Hashem. The Torah is the blueprint of who we are and why we are here. It is Hashem looking at us and saying, "I believe in you, even if you don't think your friend does." When we shift our focus from pleasing people to pleasing Hashem, the anxiety melts away. It’s the ultimate freedom.

So, this Shavuot, when we go to hear the Ten Commandments, let’s relive it for real. Let’s start living the true purpose Hashem put us on this earth for. We can give of ourselves fully, beautifully, and deeply—without the one-upping, without the resentment, and purely b'emes (in truth) and lishmah (for the right reasons). Let’s trade the dark cloud for the roar of the lion. Chag Sameach!

Part 2: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.