Few and Hard: Yaakov’s Transformation of Pain into Purpose

Rabbi Yonasan Bender LCSW – Therapist

Your heart is about the size of your fist. But it can carry a lot more than your hands ever could. You carry with it the weight of others’ lives. Some people carry more than others. It’s not a competition. It’s largely a mix between circumstances and your proclivities. Simply put, not everyone is interested in becoming an ER surgeon. Even when you are, some nights, thank God, are slower than others. At that level, sometimes, these sorts of people don’t even realize how deeply they feel others’ pain. But it shows up in subtle ways. They get tired more quickly, even after a full night’s sleep. They feel a vague sadness they can’t shake. When they walk into a room, they pick up on the invisible burdens most people miss. People who deeply live for others are like tuning forks. They vibrate sympathetically with every sorrow, joy, and heartbreak.

Yaakov Avinu was one of those people. His life, as he described it to Pharaoh, was “few and hard” (Bereishis 47:9). This wasn’t because of his personal struggles. His pain was magnified by the pain of those he loved. To understand Yaakov’s life, you can’t just look at his years but at the years of those around him. Leah’s longing for love. Rachel’s struggle with infertility. Yosef’s betrayal and loss. Dinah’s violation. Every sorrow in his family became Yaakov’s sorrow. He didn’t observe their struggles from the sidelines; he lived them with them. When Rachel cried over her empty arms, Yaakov felt the weight of her tears. When Yosef was torn from his family, it was as though Yaakov’s own heart was ripped apart. His life was “few and hard” because he never let himself stand apart. He was there, always, fully, with those he loved.

Carrying others’ pain at that level is not out of empathy. Sure, it requires empathy—the ability to understand and feel others’ feelings. But it requires much more. If you stop at empathy, you run into trouble. The best-case outcome is emotional burnout. Caring too much ends up eroding away your ability to care. The worst-case scenario is vicarious trauma. This strikes when you stop at deeply feeling. Relating so much to another’s experience can begin to feel as if you yourself went through what they did. With time, it can be just as debilitating. In my work as a supervising therapist, I’ve had to help seasoned therapists navigate this terrain. For the wounded healer, it can be terrifying. Their most cherished trait—that they care—becomes the thing that tears them apart. The common denominator in these two outcomes is stopping at holding another’s pain. Holding is not carrying. Carrying means you have direction. You have purpose. The only way to deal with this sort of suffering is to channel it into a journey forward. Yaakov exemplified this in his resilience in the face of his suffering and that of those around him. Combining selfless altruism and a steadfast spiritual mission, he transformed witnessing pain into strength and balance—two things you need when you’re hauling something forward. Rav Chaim of Volozhin makes a personal confession on this point in discussing his own father. “He regularly rebuked me, because he saw that I did not participate in the pain of others. And these were his constant words to me: This is the entire person. One is not created for himself, but to benefit others with the full extent of his powers” (Introduction, Nefesh HaChaim). Yaakov’s life exemplifies this ideal. He didn’t see his existence as his own but as a tool for easing the burdens of those around him. He carried their suffering not because he had to but because he chose to. The essence of being human is benefiting others.

With a burden on your back, no path forward is easy, especially when the task is so large. Being created in the image of God means emulating divine kindness, “so that our greatest desire should be to do good to others” (Introduction, Shaarei Yosher). For Yaakov, that meant sacrificing his own peace of mind to ensure others were supported. But it also meant enduring the pain of knowing he couldn’t fix everything. He couldn’t take away Rachel’s heartbreak entirely. He couldn’t undo Dinah’s trauma. He couldn’t rewrite the years Yosef spent enslaved and imprisoned. What he could do—and did—was remain present. He stood by them, felt their pain with them. He gave them the strength to continue because he held onto the vision of what their future could be. He gave them the vision of hope they couldn’t see. This kind of life is brave. It’s virtuous, and to my mind, the only meaningful path forward. Considering the nature of reality, the only other alternative is to just take it. That isn’t much of an alternative. The pain is commensurate with the reward. It also leaves scars. Yaakov’s hardships visibly aged him, to the point that Pharaoh marveled at his appearance (Ramban, Bereishis 47:9). But Yaakov didn’t shy away from this toll. He understood living for others doesn’t mean living a life free of suffering. It means transforming that suffering into something meaningful.

Rashi (Shabbos 105b) differentiates between years of life and years of existence. Yaakov’s “years of life”—defined by moral fulfillment—were fewer than his forefathers’. But those years were rich in meaning because those struggles led to revelatory moments. The daily grind of carrying those burdens was not, in and of itself, revelatory. By seeing each day as important for the task at hand, Yaakov didn’t live according to years. His days were cumulatively meaningful in the grand scheme of his years. Put another way, only after years did each day’s task come to fruition (Rav Hirsch, 47:7-9; Malbim, Bereishis 47:9). Yaakov’s life was “few and hard” not because it lacked value but because he invested so much of himself into others. His hardships weren’t a sign of failure but of deep involvement in the human condition.

Looking at Yaakov’s life as a “sojourn”—transient—(Bereishis 47:9) amplifies this idea. Seeing things that way puts life into perspective. Not to be cute, but you can’t think of a time you were never here. It’s not as though life feels like it’s an option—today I’m here, tomorrow I’ll be on life-vacation. Be back in the office on Monday. Our bodies feel that this is it and always has been. However, Yaakov knew better. There are two ways to go with the knowledge of our mortality. One is nihilistic. What’s the point? We all die anyway. That’s Pharaoh’s view, equating success and value with longevity and material prosperity. All that is only valuable insofar as it’s a painkiller that gets you to the ultimate end. Nothing. The second is Yaakov’s. Life is a journey (Rabbenu Bechya, Bereishis 47:8). It has a beginning, middle, and end. Just because it has an end that’s outside of our control doesn’t make it meaningless. Rather, it makes it bounded and limited (Shadal, Bereishis 47:9). That’s what focus is—not pointlessness.

This reframe of life is a huge one that can’t be overstated. We’re all trekking through a land of impermanence filled with countless dangers: quicksand of contentment, vipers of pleasure and ease. But for the hero on this journey, life is a preparatory stage for something far greater: intellectual and spiritual perfection (Moreh Nevuchim 3:12). While these dangers are pleasing, they’re ephemeral (Moreh Nevuchim 3:27). The upside, for Yaakov types, is that there isn’t much reason to put too much faith in the material world. It doesn’t just promise suffering; it’s the core reason why suffering exists—arising out of its impermanence, deficiencies, and limitations. The only place you won’t find suffering is with Hashem because He’s perfect. The world isn’t (Moreh Nevuchim 3:24). That’s why emulating Hashem is the right call. In a sense, by doing that you’re making a pocket of Hashem in this imperfect world of pain. Instead of being preoccupied with stones and wood, you can use them to build a palace of perfection in your emulation of Hashem (Moreh Nevuchim 3:51). By trying to emulate Hashem, you become constantly aware of His presence from your own actions (Moreh Nevuchim 3:52). That’s the real journey. Life’s brevity isn’t a flaw; it’s the container that gives structure and meaning. Each trial refined Yaakov’s character and brought him closer to God’s wisdom. Mesillat Yesharim (9:4) captures this sentiment: life is not meant for tranquility but for toil. It’s meant to be a process of growth and spiritual elevation. Emphasis on the word “process.”

Yaakov’s life exemplifies the interplay between divine providence and human agency. This balance provides a framework for understanding how resilience and selfless altruism both hold burnout and vicarious trauma at bay. The tension between these two is a bit of a bait-and-switch. Selfless altruism requires a serious perspective shift in life. You need to be able to say, “Come what may, I’m here.” It rubs out consequences—the very thing that causes the most suffering in life. It protects you, the helper, from the snake of arrogant healing. Some people get a high from helping others. Nothing wrong with that, per se. Good things feel good. When you fail, though, it can be crushing. That’s a sign it’s become more about you than the person you’re helping. A part of being selfless means keeping yourself out of the other person’s business. Yes, it’s noble to help them. But in order to do that, you can’t steal their pain. It’s not yours to take. Pain, in many ways, is a personalized gift for growth. Other people’s pain won’t fit you. It won’t help you grow.

Resilience, on the other hand, focuses on the process. It’s zeroing in on the present moment experience. The past happened, and we don’t know the future. You might have some educated guesses where things are heading, and you have to be practical. But only one theory will pan out, and you can’t get bogged down in “what ifs.” The future certainly contains its treasures, but there has to be a worthwhile reason right now, in this moment, to keep you on the course. Both, from slightly different angles, position you to stay focused on the other person. They anchor you into this specific pain and direct you away from the infinite and crushing possibilities of future suffering that generally don’t manifest anyway. They also take the heat off of solution-finding. Don’t get me wrong—there is nothing more that I love than solutions. If you change this, then you get that. That can help make sure you don’t go through what you did again. It’s not so great with the self-reflection part. Escaping the suffering of the past requires being able to reframe pain into purpose. How does what you went through make sense in the grand scheme of things? The world isn’t changing—it has too many moving parts that you don’t have control over. Those things are in Hashem’s hands—that’s where He intervenes (HaEmek Davar, Bereishis 47:9). What wisdom were you lacking that got you where you were? What new part of reality needs to be accepted so you can move forward again with confidence? What, about yourself, do you need to be more in tune with? Bearing the burdens of others, when rooted in a sense of personal mission, is what transforms this broken world into spiritual opportunity (Moreh Nevuchim 3:24).

Yaakov knew his life was not his own. That lack of ownership is what gave it meaning in the first place. Every choice he made, every hardship he endured, was in service to those he loved. Even when separated from them—a unique pain—he remained focused on them (Torah Temimah, Bereishis 47:9). His isolated Torah study with Shem and Ever was not an escape. It was a preparation for his role as one of the avos, ensuring he could guide his family with wisdom and faith. This same spirit colored his exile with Lavan. Yaakov’s life was a testament to these ideals. He bore the burdens of his family’s struggles but not as a martyr.  Put another way, a lot of folks feel bitter at Hashem for not showing them love. They ask, does He even care? Yaakov knew the answer was yes. He also knew that Hashem doesn’t work that way. Like a good administrator, He hires someone else to do it and stands out of their way. No one likes a nit-picky boss. Imagine having to deal with an all-knowing and all-seeing boss 24/7. Yes, you would be doing His work. He’d make sure of that. But you wouldn’t be making it your own with your own style and insight. Yaakov answered Hashem’s call as a vessel for divine love.

Yaakov’s story is a challenge and call to reevaluate how you live. Are you willing to bear the weight of others’ struggles? Do you transform your hardships into opportunities for growth and connection? His life reminds us that true greatness lies not in avoiding pain but in rushing toward it. By using pain, you can deepen your relationships because you’re busy fulfilling a higher purpose. Take a moment to think about the people in your life. Who carries silent burdens that you could help shoulder? Reflect on how you can support them without overextending yourself. This might involve setting emotional boundaries to remain resilient, practicing self-care to replenish yourself, and only offering acts of kindness within your capacity. Consider asking them directly how you can help or simply being a present and empathetic listener. Who feels unseen in their pain? Like Yaakov, we are not here for ourselves alone. We are here to feel, to connect, and to support. The years may be hard, but they can also be full—full of connection.

In the end, it’s not the length of your years but the depth of your connection to others that matters. Yaakov’s life was “few and hard.” That’s why it was also rich with purpose.