If the Shoe Fits

Recently, I noticed that my shoes were all too tight. Not just a little snug. They were hurting me.

Having already had foot surgery, I decided to do this properly. I went to a specialty footwear store to get fitted.

This was not the shoe fitting I remembered from childhood, when someone slid a metal measuring device under your foot and pressed a thumb against your big toe.

I stood on a fancy machine that collected what seemed like every possible piece of information about my feet: length, width, girth, arch height, instep height, heel width. Three-dimensional measurements. Where I exerted pressure.

I felt that my feet had never been so thoroughly understood.

The salesman reviewed the information and selected shoes. I tried them on. Walked around. We added orthotics. And these were not just any shoes. They were from a well-known brand with a reputation for fit, comfort, and quality.

They were not cheap. But especially after surgery, I thought getting the right shoes was worth the investment.

I left with the shoes, the orthotics, and high hopes.

By the second or third time I wore them, they hurt.

All those measurements. All that expertise. All that money.

And still, they did not fit.

Every Box Checked

What bothered me was not just the discomfort. It was that I had done everything I was supposed to do.

I had not ordered something online because I liked the color. I had gone to the right place, consulted someone who knew what he was doing, and submitted my feet to what felt like a full architectural survey.

Shouldn’t that have been enough?

Apparently, my feet had not read the report.

The experience challenged an assumption I had not quite realized I was making: If I did everything right, I would get the right result.

But the shoes that felt promising in the store hurt when I actually wore them. Walking around for a few minutes had not told me what living in them would.

You can do everything right and still find that the pieces do not fit together.

The Ten-Page Shidduch Checklist

Think about the lists people make when looking for a spouse—the shidduch checklist.

Kind. Intelligent. Funny. Educated. Ambitious, but not too ambitious. Financially responsible. Shared religious values. Similar interests. Wants children. Loves to travel, but also loves being home.

By page ten, we have described a very impressive person.

We have not necessarily described someone we can build a life with.

Two people can each be wonderful. They can want the same things, admire the same qualities, and look perfectly suited on paper. Their friends may be enthusiastic. Their families may be delighted.

And still, something between them does not fit.

The question is not only, “Does this person have the qualities I want?”

It is also, “What happens when the two of us are together?”

Can we communicate honestly, especially when the conversation is difficult? Do we trust each other enough to be vulnerable? Can we disagree without losing respect for one another?

It is one thing to write “good communicator,” “trustworthy,” and “respectful” on a checklist. It is another to discover how we communicate, build trust, and treat each other over time.

Those are not boxes we check once. They are part of the relationship we build.

I found myself thinking about this while watching Love Is Blind. Watching people feel certain that they have found their person, I wondered how much any of us can know before we try to turn that certainty into a shared life.

Talking about how you handle conflict is not the same as having a conflict. Wanting a marriage is not the same as discovering how the two of you function within one.

That does not make the original feelings false. It means there is more to learn.

Nor does a difficult beginning necessarily mean a relationship is wrong. Communication, trust, and respect take work. But even choosing thoughtfully and making a sincere effort cannot guarantee the outcome.

A fitting is not the same as walking.

The Career That Checks Every Box

Then there is the dream job.

You get the education. Pursue the internships. Make the connections. Prepare for the interviews.

Finally, the offer arrives.

The company has an excellent reputation. The title is impressive. The salary is right. This is the opportunity you have been working toward.

Every box is checked.

Except that once you are there, the work does not suit you. The role is not what you expected. Your boss is a micromanager. Your colleagues are difficult to work with. The qualities you thought you were hired for seem neither wanted nor appreciated.

How can something so right on paper feel so wrong in practice?

And how can you admit that after everything it took to get there?

I recognize the argument.

But the shoes were expensive.

But the brand was excellent.

But the measurements were exact.

None of those things made them fit.

Sometimes the hardest thing to let go of is not the opportunity itself. It is the story we told ourselves about what getting it would mean.

The preparation was not foolish. The effort was not wasted. But neither was it a contract guaranteeing the result.

Keep the List. Lose the Guarantee.

I am not arguing against checklists.

Have standards when choosing a spouse. Ask questions before accepting a job. And if your feet hurt, get them measured.

Preparation matters. Judgment matters. Good advice matters.

But a checklist is a tool, not a promise.

It helps us identify what we value and make a thoughtful decision. It cannot tell us everything about what will happen when people, circumstances, and time enter the picture.

Perhaps that is what appeals to me about Cinderella’s slipper: the apparent certainty of it. The shoe fits, the search is over, and we can proceed to happily ever after.

Except I now have a question.

Could she walk in it?

Not just slip it on for the triumphant moment. Spend a whole day in it. Go somewhere difficult in it.

That is where I would like the story to continue.

The danger is not in having a list. It is in believing that checking every box puts the outcome under our control.

Because when something then goes wrong, we assume someone must have failed.

We blame ourselves for missing something. We blame the other person for not being who we expected. We replay the decision, convinced that one more question would have prevented the disappointment.

Sometimes there is a mistake to acknowledge or a warning we should have taken seriously.

But sometimes we made a careful, reasonable choice with the information we had.

And it still did not work.

Where Faith Enters

For me, this is where faith in God comes into play.

Not instead of effort. Not as an excuse to avoid a decision. And not as an easy explanation for why something painful happened.

Faith reminds me that being responsible for my effort is not the same as being in control of the result.

I can prepare. I can seek advice. I can examine my choices honestly. I can do everything I know how to do.

But I cannot make every piece fit by force of preparation.

Ultimately, I believe success comes from Heaven.

That is easier to say when things work out. It is harder when you have done your part and are left wondering why the result looks nothing like what you prayed for.

I do not think faith requires me to pretend that disappointment feels good, or to announce that I already understand its purpose.

It asks me to acknowledge that I do not see the whole picture.

I may need to adjust. I may need to try again. I may need to let go of something I was certain was right for me.

None of those possibilities means my effort was meaningless.

And a disappointing outcome is not proof of insufficient faith. Believing in God is not one more box to check so that the desired result will finally arrive.

That would turn faith into the very guarantee I am learning to surrender.

What This Asks of Us as Jews

I think there is a lesson here for us as Jews, in Israel and in the Diaspora—not only in how we understand our own lives, but in how we judge one another’s.

From a distance, someone else’s choices can look remarkably simple.

They should have planned better. Chosen differently. Moved sooner. Stayed longer. Been more practical. Had more faith.

We can be quick to identify the box we think someone failed to check, without knowing every consideration they weighed or every responsibility they carry.

I imagine an Israeli saying, “I am exhausted from reserve duty, and I am worried about what this is doing to my family,” only to have that exhaustion turned into an argument about Israeli policy.

Or a Diaspora Jew saying, “I am frightened about being visibly Jewish where I live,” only to hear, “So just move to Israel”—as though a life, a family, and a set of responsibilities could simply be packed into a suitcase.

There may be important questions to discuss. But must every expression of fear or exhaustion immediately become a debate about what the person should have done differently?

Sometimes someone is not asking us to settle the future of the Jewish people. They are telling us what it feels like to be one Jew trying to get through the day.

They need someone to hear what belonging is asking of them.

If I believe that outcomes are not entirely in my hands, I should hesitate before treating another person’s struggle as proof that they have done something wrong.

Faith should make me more humble about what I can know—not more certain that I can explain someone else’s life.

What the Measurements Missed

The next time I buy shoes, I will still want the measurements.

I will still ask questions. I will still look for quality. I will still do my best to choose wisely.

But I hope I will remember that doing my part does not mean I can dictate the result.

The same is true of the decisions that matter far more than shoes: whom we marry, the work we pursue, the lives we try to build.

We bring our judgment, our effort, and our prayers. We pay attention to what happens next. We remain willing to learn and, when necessary, change course.

And we remember that success comes from Heaven—not from our ability to produce a flawless checklist.

I went into that store wanting shoes that fit.

I came away with a reminder that I can take every measurement without being able to control every outcome.

My feet, apparently, had something to teach the rest of me.