Inherent in emunah is the recognition of reward and punishment. Reason tells us that the fleeting pleasure of indulgence cannot compare to the eternal consequences. Even individuals with ketanei emunah—”little faith”—acknowledge the possibility of punishment and must regard the trade-off as indefensible. Why, then, doesn’t one see this stark reality and simply stop sinning? Yes, we have a yetzer hara, but unless a person is paralyzed by overwhelming shame, why wouldn’t we—at the very least, out of sheer fear—work relentlessly to overcome our negative impulses?
The answer lies in how fear is triggered. Fear arises when our existence feels threatened. That’s why we experience fear when our physical lives are in danger: the brain activates the fight-flight-freeze response. As discussed earlier, the more a person identifies with the false self, the more ego-based threats—such as insults or offenses—feel like existential ones. Research shows that our self-image plays a central role in how we perceive and react to threats. When it feels compromised, the brain can activate the body’s adrenal response—leading to a sudden surge of anxiety, anger, or the impulse to withdraw, as the brain interprets psychological threats as biologically significant. It’s as if his very life were at stake.
Logically, if this false self is what we identify with, then we won’t feel vulnerable to damage or repercussions to the soul. Rav Dessler explains that the yetzer hara typically presents itself in the first person, expressing desires like “I want this” or “I feel like doing that.” Conversely, the yetzer tov communicates in the second person, saying, “You should do this” or “You really need to do that,” as if speaking from another person’s perspective. This linguistic pattern reveals something profound: when we talk to ourselves, we should reverse this dynamic—use “I” for good and productive behaviors, and “you” for unproductive ones. This reinforces a positive self-identity and ownership of beneficial actions while creating psychological distance from negative behaviors.
Subconsciously, we think: That’s not me. This is the real me. And without a perceived threat, there is no fear. It’s the same indifference one might feel toward a stranger—someone whose existence feels irrelevant, or worse, inconvenient. In such a case, we may even have a vested interest in denying that person’s value altogether.
The Soul’s Way
When the ego dominates, we instinctively sacrifice our true selves to avoid discomfort or looking foolish. Shame, in contrast, exists in private—it is an internal reckoning, the pain of knowing we’ve acted beneath ourselves, regardless of whether anyone else knows. As we live more responsibly and the ego diminishes, shame becomes more acute, while our sensitivity to embarrassment, rejection, and criticism fades. Images demand protection; the truth does not. When we recognize that our true self cannot be harmed—no matter how far we venture or fall—we pursue our objectives fearlessly. As the Mishnah in Avos (5:20) instructs us: “Be as bold as a leopard, light as an eagle, swift as a deer, and strong as a lion to do the will of your Father in heaven.” The Tur notes that this teaching directs us to trust in Hashem and do what is right, even when it is uncomfortable, because too often, people hesitate to perform mitzvos out of fear of mockery, ridicule, or scorn. With no false “I” to protect, there is nothing that can be hurt.
Our mindset shapes how we interpret and respond to challenges—whether we see setbacks as failures or as valuable feedback. Research in psychology has identified two distinct approaches: a fixed mindset, which is ego-based, equates failure with personal deficiency. In this state, mistakes aren’t just obstacles; they threaten our sense of identity, making us defensive, risk-averse, and resistant to change. As the ego recedes, we step into a growth mindset, where the only fear that remains is the fear of shame—falling short of our potential and purpose. When failure no longer exists, logically, the fear of failure also ceases to exist.
Shlomo HaMelech writes, “A tzaddik falls seven times and he gets up [each time]” (Mishlei 24:16). Note that he does not say if he falls, but that he does fall. The Talmud reinforces this principle: “A person does not stand upon the words of Torah [with a clear understanding] unless he has [first] made a mistake in [the understanding of] them” (Gittin 43a). Rabbi Yitzchok Hutner commented on this verse: “The wisest of all men [Shlomo HaMelech] said ‘The tzaddik will fall seven times and will rise.’ The unlearned think that this means, ‘Even though a tzaddik falls seven times, he will rise.’ The wise know well that the meaning is: ‘Because a tzaddik falls seven times, he will rise.'”
Failures do not prevent greatness; they are prerequisites to it. Being great is not about never falling down but about getting back up. Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin writes about “downward motion that is for the sake of upward motion”—that through the descent, one can reach an even greater ascent, as the Talmud teaches in Makkos (7b). As the ego fades, we internalize that there is no descent—only ascent. Failure transforms into progress, leaving behind pure, unstoppable momentum.
Moving ourselves forward is one thing, but what direction we go in is quite another. In next week’s column, we’ll see how the common approach to unearthing our passion and purpose—asking questions like “What would I do if I could not fail?” or “What fear is holding me back?”—often falls short of delivering meaningful answers, as it fails to tap into the full range of possibilities.
To be continued.
