What Is Wrong With Me? A Jewish Approach to Self-Criticism and Growth

Once I saw a little girl standing in front of a window, trying to clean off a stubborn stain. She rubbed at it with her finger, then with her sleeve, and finally brought over a wipe. The stain did not move. “Mom,” she called out in frustration, “this window is so dirty.”

Her mother walked over, looked for a moment, and smiled. “The stain isn’t on the window,” she told her. “It’s on your glasses.”

I thought about how often we do the same thing in life. We stand there scrubbing away at reality, trying to fix the house, the children, our husband, our job, the entire world and everyone in it, and we cannot understand why nothing seems to become any clearer. Maybe the stain is not out there. Maybe it is sitting on the lens through which we are looking at ourselves.

The Question That Is Really an Accusation

There is a question we sometimes ask ourselves, usually at the very moments when we are already struggling: “What is wrong with me?” On the surface, it sounds innocent, even responsible. After all, I am willing to examine myself and do inner work. But the truth is that it is not really a question. It is an accusation disguised as a question mark.

The moment I ask, “What is wrong with me?” I have already decided that something is wrong with me. Now all that remains is to open an investigation, gather evidence, and present it before an inner court in which I am simultaneously the defendant, the prosecutor, and the judge. Very efficient staffing, if nothing else.

This usually happens at our most vulnerable moments: after a conversation in which I was not at my best, after I lost my temper with my child, or after I failed to follow through on something I had planned. Then the familiar voice appears: How did you fall into this again? Why does it seem so easy for everyone else? When are you finally going to change?

Self-Criticism Is Not Always Clarity

Harsh self-criticism is not always proof that I am seeing myself clearly. Sometimes it is precisely the distortion that prevents me from seeing the full picture.

This is not about avoiding the truth or escaping responsibility. Quite the opposite. Only when a person stops attacking herself can she finally face the truth without needing to run away from it.

Chassidut teaches that each of us contains two souls. There is the Divine soul, which wants to draw closer, become more refined, bring light, and do good. And there is the animal soul, which seeks comfort, protection, and survival. The struggle between them is not a sign that something inside us is broken. It is a sign that we are alive.

The beinoni described in the Tanya is not someone who has no struggles. He is someone who has struggles and continues to choose anyway. That is an enormous difference. If every fall proves that I am defective, I will have no strength to get back up. But if falling is part of the journey, I can look at what happened, learn something from it, and keep moving.

Growth Needs More Than Criticism

Sometimes we imagine that if we speak kindly to ourselves, we will become lazy or self-indulgent and stop growing. But the soul does not grow better when we shout at it.

A flower does not bloom faster because someone stands over it saying, “Come on, seriously? All the other flowers in the garden are already growing. What is taking you so long?” It needs light, water, patience, and the right conditions. So do we.

Hashem does not ask us to come to Him only after we have become perfect. He meets us here, in the middle of the journey, somewhere between the desire to grow and the fall, between the tears and the next attempt.

So perhaps the next time we hear that familiar question inside us, “What is wrong with me?” we can pause and replace it with a different one: “What am I going through right now, and how can I be on my own side?”