Behind the Calm Face: When Emotional Distance Feels Safe

Here is a refined version with improved flow and clarity, a few well placed subtitles, and no unnecessary hyphens or separation lines. The concepts, structure, and emotional arc remain fully intact.

This week, I want to share the story of Naḥum. Of course, certain details have been changed to protect his identity.

A Man Who Seems to Have It All

Naḥum is a successful man. In every area he touches, he thrives. He has a unique charm that captivates those he encounters.

He wears several hats simultaneously. Naḥum serves as a lecturer in one of the leading yeshivot. He is also a sought after mentor for grooms, and beyond that, respected leaders of the Jewish community asked him to take on the role of chairman of the admissions committee for local institutions.

If you imagine Naḥum as stressed, hurried, or overwhelmed, you would be mistaken.

His demeanor is consistently calm and relaxed. It feels as though the tranquility of the world rests on his face. He stands tall, his features smooth, his hair far darker than his years would suggest. His eyes shine, his steps are measured, and his speech is unhurried and thoughtful. He always seems to have time.

Despite his many commitments, Naḥum never misses his friends’ celebrations. He arrives early, smiling warmly, holding a carefully wrapped gift and an elegantly written card.

So why am I telling you about Naḥum?

When Knowledge Is Not Enough

When Naḥum approached me and expressed interest in joining a couples coaching training program, it appeared that his motivation was purely professional. He wanted deeper knowledge of relationships in order to better support the grooms he mentors and to guide them after marriage.

At that stage, Naḥum believed therapy was primarily a technique. Learn the theory, internalize the principles, and then apply them.

What surprised him deeply was discovering that theory is only the outer layer. The heart of the work is courageous introspection.

The core of the program is a dynamic group process. Naḥum integrated easily. He listened attentively, reflected accurately, expressed empathy, and connected insights with ease. Here too, he quickly earned respect.

Until one meeting changed everything.

When the Mask Cracked

One evening, Eli arrived emotionally overwhelmed. Through tears, he shared the pain of a son who had turned his back on him and left home.

The group sat in silence, struggling to find words.

As expected, Naḥum was the first to respond. He spoke gently and confidently, looking Eli in the eyes with warmth and reassurance.

Then, unexpectedly, Eli spoke.

“You know, Naḥum, I don’t believe you. I can’t explain why, but it’s hard for me to feel that you truly care. Something in your words, your movements, your confident tone feels like a performance. It’s hard for me to buy it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even more striking, none of the group members objected.

This was a pivotal moment. Would Naḥum be able to turn this confrontation into introspection, or would he retreat?

Eli continued, carefully but firmly. He explained that while Naḥum’s words sounded empathetic, the pain did not feel as though it had truly entered his heart. He added that perhaps this emotional distance was also what enabled Naḥum to function so efficiently in so many roles.

“You’re a good man,” Eli said. “You’re not cruel or dismissive. But you are disconnected.”

Choosing to Stay Present

The words were difficult to hear. Yet Naḥum did not run away.

He shared openly that his wife had been trying to tell him something similar for decades. Until now, he had never truly understood what she meant.

“But hearing it from all of you,” he said quietly, “and in such a concrete way, makes it impossible to escape the truth.”

Here I want to pause and add an important personal note.

In my work with couples, I am never emotionally detached. My inner world constantly meets the emotional worlds of the people I guide. I listen closely to my feelings, bodily sensations, inner resistances, and emotional reactions. All of these are valuable tools.

Still, this raises a critical question. Who says I am not affected? Who says I do not resonate more strongly with one side?

This is why one of the most fundamental principles in therapy is that every therapist must also be a client. No amount of experience replaces ongoing self awareness and inner work.

Where Numbness Begins

Naḥum did not become emotionally distant by chance.

As we explored his past, a clear picture emerged. As a child, Naḥum was treated like an object by his father. His emotional needs were ignored. He was expected to be a flawless representative of the family, without weakness or blemish.

Emotions, he learned, were an inconvenience. The safest defense was numbness.

Naḥum locked his heart away and threw the key into the depths of the sea, as he once described it to me. This was how he protected himself from pain.

There is no doubt his father had his own reasons. But that is not the focus of this story.

Learning to Feel Again

In a later group meeting, Naḥum spoke again, his voice trembling slightly.

“I’ve begun to feel,” he said. “Even now, I feel, and it’s really not easy. Until now, life was comfortable. People around me functioned smoothly. As Eli said, I used them.”

“But now everything feels heavier. You’ve taken away my defense.”

“Do you want it back?” Eli asked gently.

“No,” Naḥum replied immediately. “I would never give up this new taste in life. But I need you to know that there is another side to it.”

Feeling means vulnerability. It means pain, uncertainty, worry, and anxiety.

The Marriage Mirror

This emotional pattern deeply shaped Naḥum’s marriage.

When Naḥum and his wife Esther came to therapy, Esther spoke honestly.

“I can’t explain it,” she said. “I have a husband every woman would wish for. He is devoted, generous, responsible, caring. And yet, inside, I feel empty. Lonely.”

She described feeling like an object. Comfortable, pleasant, functional, but without emotional depth. When she changed her mind or expressed complexity, Naḥum was already gone emotionally. He never said it outright, but she felt as though she had no right to be human.

At one point, I paused her and asked, “Do you allow yourself to be human? Or do you also expect yourself to be predictable and easy? Where is your part in sustaining this dynamic?”

Esther did not answer immediately. After several long minutes, she nodded slowly. Something important had clicked.

She realized that she admired Naḥum deeply, while struggling with self criticism and low self acceptance. To justify her place beside such a man, she minimized herself. In doing so, she fed his emotional distance.

“I’m glad my husband is a man of steel,” she said quietly. “Because I feel so weak.”

Do you see how this works?

Each partner contributes to the system they live in. Marriage is where the deepest wounds surface, but it is also where the most profound growth can occur.

A Shared Transformation

Esther began to explore the parts of herself she had rejected. As she learned to accept and express herself more fully, she brought more authenticity into the relationship.

In response, Naḥum was forced to feel her more deeply. He made space for her presence, emotions, and needs.

She began taking time for herself, sharing experiences, expressing opinions. Naḥum reduced his work hours. Esther no longer accepted his late nights, and surprisingly, he welcomed the change.

“I received myself as a gift,” he once said.

An Invitation to Look Within

Each of us carries a degree of numbness to protect ourselves. That protection brings gains, but it also carries losses.

I invite you to look courageously at your own defenses. Examine both what they give you and what they cost you. As fear diminishes, defenses loosen. Connection deepens.

And the more we allow ourselves to feel, without masks, the more we are able to truly feel our partner.

Rabbi Aryeh Ettinger is a counselor and the founder of a training school for couples counselors.