You Don’t Have to Heal Before You Love 

Imagine someone who has lost a spouse. Months, perhaps years, have passed. One afternoon, a message arrives from someone they’ve recently met. They smile. For the first time in a long time, they feel a little excitement. And then comes the guilt. Is it too soon? What will the children think? Does finding happiness with someone new somehow diminish the love they had before? Grief has a strange way of making people feel guilty for being happy.

But this isn’t only about losing a spouse. After divorce, betrayal, or heartbreak, we often hear the same advice: Take time for yourself. Work on your issues. Find closure. Become emotionally healthy before opening your heart again. There’s wisdom in that advice. But it raises an interesting question: Do we have to heal before we can love again?

This week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, offers a surprising perspective. The portion begins with Sarah’s death. Abraham mourns her and arranges her burial. Later, he sends his servant to find a wife for Isaac. When Isaac meets Rebecca, the Torah tells us: Vaye’ehaveha vayinaḥem Yitzchak acharei imo. “He loved her, and Isaac was comforted after his mother.” (Genesis 24:67)

Notice the order. First love. Then comfort.

According to the biblical chronology, Isaac was 37 when Sarah died and 40 when he married Rebecca. Three years had passed. We don’t know what those years were like for Isaac. Did he struggle with his mother’s death? Did he withdraw from others? Did he feel lonely? The Torah doesn’t say. But it does tell us that Isaac loved Rebecca, and then he found comfort. Not the other way around.

It doesn’t mean Rebecca replaced Sarah or that Isaac stopped missing his mother. But it raises an interesting possibility: perhaps healing isn’t always something that happens before we open ourselves to another relationship. Sometimes the relationship itself becomes part of the healing.

In America, we’ve become remarkably comfortable discussing emotional health. We talk about boundaries, trauma, self-care, and personal growth. Much of this is progress. Previous generations often ignored emotional suffering or simply told people to get over it. But I wonder whether we’ve taken a good idea a little too far. We’ve begun treating healing as another personal achievement, something we need to complete before we’re ready to participate fully in life. As though emotional health comes with a graduation ceremony.

Psychology offers a more complicated picture. Research on attachment and social support suggests that meaningful relationships can contribute to emotional recovery. We don’t always become emotionally healthy in isolation and then enter relationships. Sometimes relationships themselves help us become healthier. And this isn’t limited to romance. A friend who calls regularly. A neighbor who invites us for dinner. A community that welcomes us even when we’re not particularly good company. These relationships don’t solve our problems. But they remind us that our problems aren’t the entirety of our lives.

Jewish tradition offers an interesting perspective on this distinction. Judaism establishes structured periods of mourning: shiva, shloshim, and, for a parent, a longer period of mourning. But these are religious frameworks, not emotional deadlines. Someone can finish shiva and remain devastated. Another person may find moments of happiness while still mourning deeply. The calendar organizes our responsibilities. It doesn’t dictate our emotions.

Nowhere is the tension between grief and living more visible than in Israel. Imagine an Israeli family sitting down for Shabbat dinner while someone they love is serving in the army. The worry is never far away. A phone sits nearby. Yet someone tells a joke. The children argue over dessert. For a few moments, everyone laughs. Nobody has forgotten what’s happening. They’re simply living alongside it.

Since October 7, 2023, Israeli families have faced extraordinary grief and uncertainty. Yet weddings still take place, babies are born, and friends gather around Shabbat tables. How can people celebrate when so many others are suffering? Perhaps the better question is how anyone could endure so much suffering without moments of connection and joy.

As a hospice chaplain, I’ve spent considerable time with people confronting loss. One thing becomes clear: grief rarely follows the neat schedules we imagine for it. People laugh while grieving. They experience gratitude alongside sadness. They can deeply miss someone and still look forward to tomorrow. These aren’t necessarily signs that grief has ended. They’re reminders that human beings can experience more than one emotion at a time. And finding happiness doesn’t mean someone has forgotten their suffering.

Which brings us back to Isaac. Three years after his mother’s death, he marries Rebecca. The Torah doesn’t tell us whether his sadness disappeared or whether he finally achieved closure. It simply tells us that he loved her, and he was comforted. Isaac didn’t have to forget Sarah to love Rebecca. And Rebecca didn’t have to erase his past to become part of his future.

We tend to imagine that healing makes room for love. Isaac’s story suggests that sometimes love is what makes room for healing.