The Elul Trap of “If Only”: How Personal Responsibility Transforms Relationships

As every Jewish holiday approaches, something deep within the Jewish soul longs to feel connected. When a Jewish soul connects with a Jewish season, life takes on a different quality. The holy days become more spiritual, more meaningful, deeper, and more sacred. The prayers feel more genuine, the tears more pure, and the entire experience becomes wrapped in a sense of being lovingly embraced by the Creator.

How often do we hear someone say, “Wow, I really connected to the prayers this year”? Yet making that connection is not always easy. We often find ourselves wondering: Where is the switch? What do I need to do to make it all come alive?

One helpful approach is to choose a single theme from the holiday each year and connect it to something personal happening in one of your relationships. When the spiritual message of the season intersects with real life, the holiday suddenly becomes relevant, tangible, and transformative.

The Trap of “If Only”

Many of us suffer from a common Elul-related habit that stems from a play on the Hebrew letters of the month's name to read Lule which means if only. It is what I call the “if only” syndrome.

A surprising amount of frustration in marriage comes from this mindset. It sounds something like this: “If only you behaved differently, I could be happy.” “If only you understood me.” “If only you would change.”

These thoughts seem innocent, but they can become a prison.

Elul invites us to leave that prison behind. The month teaches us that true change begins with ourselves. It reminds us that “the matter depends on me.” Especially within marriage, Elul calls us to personal introspection. Instead of constantly examining the faults of our spouse, we are challenged to examine our own behavior and motivations. Where does my reaction come from? Why do I respond the way I do? What can I change within myself?

Blaming another person for our unhappiness is often little more than a primitive psychological defense mechanism. Once the other person recognizes what is happening, it usually stops working anyway. It often sounds like this: “You're supposed to make me happy.” “You're the reason I feel this way.”

The High Holy Days ask something different of us. They ask for personal responsibility. They ask us to untangle the knots created by years of blame and accusation. Not if only you, but perhaps if only I.

A Rosh Hashanah Memory

Elul always takes me back to the first time I saw my husband.

It was on the second night of Rosh Hashanah. His family was a secular family from northern Tel Aviv, and I had been invited to join them for the holiday meal. Well, that is not exactly how it happened. My close friend — let's call her Liri, was invited first. She asked if I would accompany her to her family gathering.

I immediately began searching for excuses. I was not yet twenty years old, but God already occupied a significant place in my heart. From the outside, however, there was nothing visibly religious about me.

“I try not to travel by car on the holiday,” I told Liri.

“Oh, that's fine,” she replied casually. “I'll drive.”

At the time, in my limited understanding of Jewish law, that sounded like a reasonable solution. And so we entered the elegant living room of the Barzel family.

The Night Everything Began

The table was beautifully set. A piano stood in the corner. Holiday songs filled the air.

“Nice to meet you,” I said as I walked in, even though I was anything but comfortable. The entire situation felt awkward. But if I had not overcome that embarrassment, there would never have been a wedding.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Noa.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Orna.

The two sisters smiled politely.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Miki, their younger brother.

Two secular young people. Neither of us could possibly have imagined what the future held.

Looking Back Through the Lens of Elul

Years later, we would stand together beneath a chuppah. Together we would return to Jewish observance. We would build a family. We would learn to love God together. We would be moved by the same holidays. We would long for the same spiritual experiences. We would argue like every married couple argues, and we would learn how to make peace again.

Had I not walked into that house that Rosh Hashanah night, I never would have known that we would one day share a life dedicated to serving God. I never would have known that every year, on the second night of Rosh Hashanah, we would look a little older than the year before. I never would have known that between the apples and the dates, we would always remember where it all began.

Looking back, I realize how much personal responsibility is woven into the fabric of a healthy relationship. Marriage is not built on blame. It is not sustained by waiting for the other person to change first. Real growth begins when each person is willing to look inward and take ownership of their own thoughts, actions, and reactions.

That is difficult work. But it is also holy work. And it is exactly the kind of work that Elul invites us to do.

The Message of Elul

Perhaps that is one of Elul's greatest lessons. Life is not built on “if only.” Not if only my spouse were different. Not if only my circumstances were better. Not if only the people around me would change.

The work of Elul begins with ourselves. It begins with taking responsibility. It begins with asking not what someone else must do for me, but what I can do to become the person I was created to be.

Nowhere is that lesson more evident than in marriage, where growth, love, forgiveness, and connection all begin with personal accountability.

That is the work of Elul. And that is how true connection begins.