May, 2025

There’s something almost intoxicating about the speed and precision of AI. In moments, it can write, translate, generate, and organize—tasks that once demanded hours, days, or even entire careers. It’s dazzling. Efficient. Practically magical.

What if I were to tell you that this blog post you’re reading right now was written by ChatGPT?

On the one hand, it shouldn’t matter. The ideas are mine. The message is clear, and the writing is polished and readable. In that sense, AI is a gift—it helps clarify, refine, and amplify messages worth sharing.

But on the other hand I wonder: what does that say about the journey this post has taken? Has the idea been wrestled with, mulled over during quiet nights, shaped by the slow, patient wisdom that life and experience offer? Or was it handed off too soon, polished by a machine before it could breathe and mature? Does it matter?

There’s no denying AI’s brilliance. It allows me to work smarter, freeing up time for what truly matters. But beneath the surface, there’s a quiet cost—not just to our thinking capacity, or even our authenticity. Maybe the problem isn’t even about results. Maybe we’re finally admitting that we’d rather produce something excellent with less effort. Maybe that’s just smarter, more realistic and productive.

No, the real danger is subtler:

The more we automate the messy parts of life, the more we come to believe that mess itself is meaningless. That if the results are impressive, the process doesn’t matter.

The process is messy. It unfolds slowly and unevenly, filled with doubt and missteps; discarded drafts and difficult conversations, long silences and tearful prayers. It’s the place where we run face first into walls, and then stand back up and learn how to climb them. It’s where we get stuck and where we reach out for help. It is where bonds are forged and deepened—not just with others, but with ourselves, and our faith too.

It is in this vein that I can’t help but see in AI a shadow of what the primordial snake was cursed with in the Garden of Eden: that he would eat from the dust of the earth – that he would always have anything he needed within reach. Nothing to chase. No hunger, no dependence, no journey but endless access. He would never have to struggle, never have to ask for help, never have to face his limitations and dare himself to overcome. He would never get to watch himself become different than who he was yesterday, all because he had been robbed of one thing: the process. 

As kids, we’re told that effort is what counts. But then adulthood hits, and “A for effort” rarely cuts it. “Trying” won’t save your relationship. “Working on it” doesn’t soothe your grandmother when she asks why you’re still single.

It’s not news to anyone that there’s no overcoming without struggle—and that the cost of having things handed to you is the person you might have become. We say the journey is where we “grow” as if it’s a staircase to betterment. But what if that’s only half true?

Maybe it is us who are misunderstanding what the process is supposed to be,

What if the process isn’t only where we grow—

But more importantly where we discover what parts of us refuse to. Not as much a ladder as it is a mirror. 

And nowhere is that truer than in relationships.

They’re filled with pauses that sting, misunderstandings that grate, silences that stretch too long. But these aren’t bugs in the system. They are the system. 

We live in a culture that rewards outcomes: jobs landed, deals closed, weddings planned. But what about the quieter victories? Like noticing when you’re shutting down. Or choosing to stay in a hard conversation one minute longer. Or realizing your urge to blame is really just fear wearing another face.

Maybe being present in the process means asking something deeper than, “What’s wrong?”

Instead, try:

 “What part of me is being exposed here?”
“What’s refusing to grow?”

I’m grateful for AI, truly. But I know that if I hadn’t sat here in front of this blinking cursor for all the time I did, I wouldn’t have seen through the clichés in my own argument. I wouldn’t have rearranged, rewritten, and wrestled with what I really meant to say. It was in these painfully slow, uncomfortable moments—facing myself—that I uncovered layers I wouldn’t have noticed if I’d rushed or outsourced the work. That process revealed what I was really struggling to say—not just what sounded good on the surface.

In an age where we can outsource everything from writing to recipe ideas to “what he really meant by that text,” it’s easy to crave clarity. We want clean answers. Diagnoses. Labels. A direct route to certainty. 

But imagine if you were cursed to receive the perfect relationship—no effort, no misunderstandings, no moments of doubt. Nothing to work through. Nothing to stretch you.

No chance to ask:
What do I avoid saying because I want to be liked?
What stories do I tell myself about love, safety, or closeness?
Where do I flinch? Where do I soften? What am I afraid they’ll see?

No miscommunications to show us how we respond to hurt.
No silences that reveal how we tolerate the unknown.
No overreactions pointing us toward wounds we swore were already healed.

Relationships aren’t AI.
They can’t be skipped, hacked, or streamlined.

And thank G-d for that.

With Pesach dishes finally packed away and a glorious goodbye waved to the mountain of leftovers and never-ending matzah crumbs, we have all by now settled into the rhythm of counting the Omer—a 49-day practice spanning the second night of Pesach until the eve of Shavuot. This daily count marks our ancestors’ journey from Egypt’s darkness to the revelation at Sinai, and is mean to be a time for us to similarly prepare ourselves with our own impending encounters with something Divine at Shavuos. But beneath this simple ritual lies a powerful lesson about growth, readiness, and the slow work it takes to truly receive something meaningful.

Our Sages teach that the original 49-day journey that our ancestors walked—from the spiritual abyss of Mitzrayim to the transcendent moment of receiving the Torah at Sinai—wasn’t just about time passing. It was about who they were becoming with each day that passed. This was a generation still shaking off the dust of slavery, struggling to believe in their own worth, their capacity for relationship, for covenant, for closeness with something bigger than themselves.

They didn’t go straight from the murky depths of Egypt into the clarity of Torah. They stumbled their way forward. There were miracles—the splitting of the sea, the sweetening of the bitter waters, the manna falling from heaven. But there were also moments of real struggle—fights, complaints, confusion, even war. The journey was not one without its ups and downs – but they got there in the end.

And that’s what makes Sefira such a deeply relationship-oriented time of year.

Because if we’re honest, most of our relationships—romantic, platonic, familial—don’t unfold in perfect moments of clarity. They unfold in the in-between. In the messy middle. In the daily, sometimes unseen effort to become someone who knows how to connect and be connected to.

It’s tempting to crave immediacy. A spark on the first date. A deep talk that changes everything. A picture-perfect bond. But real relationships—like real freedom—aren’t born in a moment. They’re built over time. And like our ancestors in the desert, we too need a process to become people who can hold real connection, mutual respect, and the kind of love that isn’t performative, but transformative.

This isn’t just spiritual theory—it’s backed by science.

A 2020 study from Yale University found that people recovering from addiction show a disruption in their prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for decision-making. The very act of chasing instant gratification begins to rewire the brain, making it harder and harder to choose values over impulses, depth over escape. In relationships, this dynamic plays out when we prioritize short-term satisfaction over long-term emotional connection. The longer we indulge such destructive behaviors, the more difficult it becomes to trust and appreciate a genuine, deep, healthy relationship. 

But here’s the good news: the study also found that the brain begins to heal. Slowly. Quietly. The longer someone abstains from the addictive behavior —even just a day at a time—the more those damaged neural pathways begin to reconnect. One day clean, two days clean, a week, two weeks. The small daily choices begin to rebuild the self from the inside out.

That recovery journey may feel far from romantic, but in truth, it’s a profound reflection of what real relationship-building looks like. We don’t become a safe person to love overnight. We don’t magically develop the ability to listen well, to communicate with patience, to stand our ground without tearing others down.

We build it.
One choice to respond instead of withdraw.
One moment of apologizing instead of justifying.
One act of kindness we weren’t in the mood for.
One conversation where we speak truth with gentleness instead of force.

These moments rarely look dramatic. But they repattern our capacity for intimacy. They teach our hearts how to trust. They show our minds a new way of staying present. Subtly, they rewire how we love.

And just like addicts receive chips marking milestones—one week clean, one month, two months—we too mark each small victory of emotional growth during Sefira. Today is four weeks and three days. It’s the same rhythm. The same humility. The same slow, upward climb. Because real change, whether in recovery or in love, doesn’t hit like lightning. It builds like a muscle. Quietly, and then all at once.

The sacrifice that used to be brought in the Temple on Shavuot, marking the end of our 49 day sefira journey was called the “Mincha Chadasha”— literally, the “new offering”. Our Rabbis explain that it isn’t just new grain that’s being brought. It’s a new self. The one forged in the daily, steady work of becoming. 

That’s the challenge—and the promise—of the Sefira journey. Not just to count time, but to make time count.

So if you’re in the middle of a relationship, just starting one, or trying to prepare yourself for one that hasn’t arrived yet—pause for a second. Ask yourself: Who am I becoming right now? Am I a little more patient than I was a week ago? A little more grounded? A little more real?

Because love isn’t what happens when we find the right person.
It’s what happens when we keep becoming the right person—one day at a time.