The Body Is Not the Enemy

This week, I was doing laps in the pool, training for my first (Ironman 70.3) triathlon, when a thought hit me: The Torah commands, “וְנִשְׁמַרְתֶּם מְאֹד לְנַפְשֹׁתֵיכֶם,” often translated as, “You shall guard your souls exceedingly.” But a broader, perhaps more faithful, rendering might be: You shall take very great care of yourselves.

All of yourselves.

Growing up in an Orthodox home and school, I sometimes found myself confused by the hierarchy of what mattered most. Certain mitzvot (commandments) were emphasized with intensity. At times, even a minhag (custom) seemed to carry enormous weight. In some communities, particularly within segments of the Chassidic world, something as simple as stepping outside without the expected hat and jacket could prompt swift correction. Dress was not merely clothing; it was identity, reverence, continuity.

I do not dismiss that. External symbols matter. They cultivate belonging. They communicate values. They shape discipline.

But quietly, I struggled with a question.

If we were so vigilant about the visible markers of holiness, why were we less vigilant about the human being underneath them?

I remember being in Chabad yeshiva and being summoned to the Rosh Yeshivah’s office. He rarely called in individual students, so I assumed something significant was on his mind. Perhaps he wanted to check in. Perhaps he had noticed something or wanted to offer encouragement. Instead, I was reprimanded for walking on a nearby street without a hat and jacket.

I do not question his sincerity. Dress mattered deeply in that environment. But I could not help wondering what might have happened if that same intensity had been directed toward understanding how I was actually doing emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I knew exactly how I was expected to look. I was less sure anyone knew how I felt.

We were taught to guard the neshama (soul), to prioritize ruchniyut (spirituality), and to avoid spiritual decline. The language of transcendence was strong. The body, however, often felt secondary, something to manage or restrain, but not something to actively cultivate as part of one’s Judaism. Conversations about healthy embodiment, including appropriate and responsible sexual education for both boys and girls, were often limited or avoided. That, too, is part of this larger discussion.

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed a subtle message: the soul is sacred; the body is suspect. The spiritual is elevated; the physical is a distraction.

But the Torah does not describe the human being as a soul trapped in disposable flesh. It describes an integrated creation, dust of the earth animated by divine breath. The body is not an accident. It is a vessel entrusted to us. The same G-d who created our souls created our bodies.

We see profound respect given to the Jewish body after death. The care taken in burial, the reverence shown even in tragic circumstances, reflects the belief that the body is sacred. If that sacredness exists at the end of life, why do we not speak of it more during life itself?

If the body is sacred, then caring for it cannot be peripheral.

Taking very great care of ourselves must include sleep, solid nutrition, movement, and mental health. It must include emotional resilience and the courage to seek therapy when needed. It must include acknowledging that chronic stress erodes not only our health, but our capacity for patience, prayer, and joy. The same is true of the loneliness that so many are experiencing today.

We often speak about simcha as a religious ideal, even a mitzvah. But joy does not rest on willpower alone. It is supported by physical vitality, emotional stability, and meaningful connection. Ignoring those foundations while demanding spiritual elevation can leave people feeling inadequate or empty rather than inspired.

Even in communal challenges that deeply concern us, from burnout to the struggles many singles face in building homes, we rarely ask whether greater emotional health and embodied well-being might be part of the solution. We host panels. We debate policy. But how often do we frame mental, emotional, and physical growth as a religious obligation rather than a lifestyle choice?

Imagine if young people were taught that exercise is not vanity, but stewardship. That caring for their mental health is not weakness, but responsibility. That improving longevity and strength are is not a distraction but rather a spiritual practice.

We have been meticulous about guarding the symbols of holiness. Perhaps it is time to guard, with equal seriousness, the human being wearing them.

Taking great care of ourselves is not self-indulgence. It is not Western influence. It is not secular.
It is as much a part of Jewish values as any other, and if we treated it as such, we would all be better off, individually and collectively.