“Tzomah Lecha Nafshi”: A Personal Exodus
Yud Alef Nissan / Pre-Pesach Reflections
As we prepare for Pesach—a time of liberation—I find myself not just cleaning my home, but cleaning out inner spaces I forgot existed.
Well… truthfully, I’m not cleaning my home much at all this year. We’re going to my parents for Yom Tov. The Chometz is sold. The kitchen is quiet.
But inside? That’s where the real work is happening.
This year, I’m cleaning out my internal Chometz—the puffed-up parts of me, the stale habits, the stuck stories, the parts that cling to fear or old identity. I’m learning to recognize ego not as arrogance, but as contraction—my soul trying to protect itself, but in doing so, forgetting its vastness.
And in the middle of all this, I’ve been sitting with a niggun:
צָמְאָה לְךָ נַפְשִׁי, כָּמַה לְךָ בְשָׂרִי—בְּאֶרֶץ-צִיָּה וְעָיֵף בְּלִי מָיִם.
“My soul thirsts for You, my flesh longs for You, in a dry and weary land without water.”
(תהילים ס״ג:ב׳)
My healing journey has been unfolding for a while now—months of peeling back layers, letting go of old patterns, and listening more carefully to what my soul is trying to say.
But this part—this raw thirst—is something new. It caught me off guard. It’s real. It’s happening now.
The niggun resurfaced two weeks ago at Aliya—during “Chassidus before Davening” on a Shabbos morning.
I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was just in town for my sister’s wedding.
But as we learned the Rebbe’s explanation of it, something opened.
It hit differently. It stirred something I didn’t know was waiting.
And it wasn’t just any Shabbos—it was שַׁבָּת הַחֹדֶשׁ, when we read:
הַחֹדֶשׁ הַזֶּה לָכֶם — “This month is yours.”
The power of renewal. The divine empowerment to begin again. To reset.
Maybe my soul heard that call before I realized it. Because something started moving in me that day.
The following Shabbos, I went to Crown Heights in honor of my Zaidy’s Yartzeit. I spent Shabbos immersed in that energy—of memory, of legacy, of neshamas that still guide us.
On Sunday morning, I went to the Rebbe’s Ohel.
I wrote and opened up in a way I never had before. Something shifted in me.
And as I washed my hands and turned to leave—there it was.
The Rebbe on the screen, singing Tzomah Lecha Nafshi.
Hashem’s hashgacha pratis. Speaking directly to me.
And this time, I was ready to hear it.
Later that morning, I visited my Zaidy’s kever.
His life, the Rebbe’s niggun, and my own voice—somehow all felt connected. Like generations lining up behind me, whispering: You’re exactly where you need to be.
The Rebbe didn’t just teach the notes—he taught the thirst.
That longing itself is a form of closeness. That the soul’s cry isn’t a sign of disconnection—it is connection. A numb soul doesn’t thirst. A living soul does.
And then comes the second pasuk in the niggun:
כֵּן בַּקֹּדֶשׁ חֲזִיתִיךָ, לִרְאוֹת עֻזְּךָ וּכְבוֹדֶךָ.
“So, too, in the sanctuary I saw You, to behold Your strength and Your glory.”
(תהילים ס״ג:ג׳)
That line changes everything. It tells me this thirst isn’t blind or directionless.
It comes from a memory—maybe hidden, maybe just a flicker—but something in me remembers G-d.
My soul has seen.
And that memory is what fuels the yearning.
I’ve been walking a healing path—body, mind, and soul. Letting go of what dulled me. Making space for what wakes me up. What I’m finding now isn’t emptiness. It’s longing.
And longing is sacred.
Yud Alef Nissan, the Rebbe’s birthday, reminds me that every soul matters. That each of us is a lamplighter. And Pesach, the season of geulah, reminds me that Mitzrayim isn’t only ancient Egypt.
It’s anything in me that feels like a personal meitzar—a place of constriction, fear, or habit that keeps my soul from expanding.
And sometimes, leaving Egypt isn’t loud.
Sometimes it’s just a quiet moment…
A song…
A tear…
And the Rebbe singing a niggun I didn’t know I needed—until I did.
This year, I’m not aiming for perfection. I’m aiming for presence. For softness. For truth.
And I’m letting Tzomah Lecha Nafshi carry me forward, one note at a time.
As we prepare for Pesach—a time of liberation—I find myself not just cleaning my home, but cleaning out inner spaces I forgot existed.
Well… truthfully, I’m not cleaning my home much at all this year. We’re going to my parents for Yom Tov. The Chometz is sold. The kitchen is quiet.
But inside? That’s where the real work is happening.
This year, I’m cleaning out my internal Chometz—the puffed-up parts of me, the stale habits, the stuck stories, the parts that cling to fear or old identity. I’m learning to recognize ego not as arrogance, but as contraction—my soul trying to protect itself, but in doing so, forgetting its vastness.
And in the middle of all this, I’ve been sitting with a niggun:
צָמְאָה לְךָ נַפְשִׁי, כָּמַה לְךָ בְשָׂרִי—בְּאֶרֶץ-צִיָּה וְעָיֵף בְּלִי מָיִם.
“My soul thirsts for You, my flesh longs for You, in a dry and weary land without water.”
(תהילים ס״ג:ב׳)
My healing journey has been unfolding for a while now—months of peeling back layers, letting go of old patterns, and listening more carefully to what my soul is trying to say.
But this part—this raw thirst—is something new. It caught me off guard. It’s real. It’s happening now.
The niggun resurfaced two weeks ago at Aliya—during “Chassidus before Davening” on a Shabbos morning.
I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was just in town for my sister’s wedding.
But as we learned the Rebbe’s explanation of it, something opened.
It hit differently. It stirred something I didn’t know was waiting.
And it wasn’t just any Shabbos—it was שַׁבָּת הַחֹדֶשׁ, when we read:
הַחֹדֶשׁ הַזֶּה לָכֶם — “This month is yours.”
The power of renewal. The divine empowerment to begin again. To reset.
Maybe my soul heard that call before I realized it. Because something started moving in me that day.
The following Shabbos, I went to Crown Heights in honor of my Zaidy’s Yartzeit. I spent Shabbos immersed in that energy—of memory, of legacy, of neshamas that still guide us.
On Sunday morning, I went to the Rebbe’s Ohel.
I wrote and opened up in a way I never had before. Something shifted in me.
And as I washed my hands and turned to leave—there it was.
The Rebbe on the screen, singing Tzomah Lecha Nafshi.
Hashem’s hashgacha pratis. Speaking directly to me.
And this time, I was ready to hear it.
Later that morning, I visited my Zaidy’s kever.
His life, the Rebbe’s niggun, and my own voice—somehow all felt connected. Like generations lining up behind me, whispering: You’re exactly where you need to be.
The Rebbe didn’t just teach the notes—he taught the thirst.
That longing itself is a form of closeness. That the soul’s cry isn’t a sign of disconnection—it is connection. A numb soul doesn’t thirst. A living soul does.
And then comes the second pasuk in the niggun:
כֵּן בַּקֹּדֶשׁ חֲזִיתִיךָ, לִרְאוֹת עֻזְּךָ וּכְבוֹדֶךָ.
“So, too, in the sanctuary I saw You, to behold Your strength and Your glory.”
(תהילים ס״ג:ג׳)
That line changes everything. It tells me this thirst isn’t blind or directionless.
It comes from a memory—maybe hidden, maybe just a flicker—but something in me remembers G-d.
My soul has seen.
And that memory is what fuels the yearning.
I’ve been walking a healing path—body, mind, and soul. Letting go of what dulled me. Making space for what wakes me up. What I’m finding now isn’t emptiness. It’s longing.
And longing is sacred.
Yud Alef Nissan, the Rebbe’s birthday, reminds me that every soul matters. That each of us is a lamplighter. And Pesach, the season of geulah, reminds me that Mitzrayim isn’t only ancient Egypt.
It’s anything in me that feels like a personal meitzar—a place of constriction, fear, or habit that keeps my soul from expanding.
And sometimes, leaving Egypt isn’t loud.
Sometimes it’s just a quiet moment…
A song…
A tear…
And the Rebbe singing a niggun I didn’t know I needed—until I did.
This year, I’m not aiming for perfection. I’m aiming for presence. For softness. For truth.
And I’m letting Tzomah Lecha Nafshi carry me forward, one note at a time.