It was raining steadily as Sara sat in the hospital parking lot, staring at the clock on her dashboard. It was 6:15 PM, and her phone was blowing up. The number of new notifications was next-level. There were dozens of messages from group chats, a text from a shadchan who wanted an immediate response, an urgent email from her college advisor, a voicemail from her father asking her to pick up milk on her way home, and an email from her supervisor that she was afraid to open.
She took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to remain level-headed as she checked her messages. Her anxiety levels were spiking to a new level of panic, and her confidence level was sinking fast. She knew she should head upstairs where her mother was recovering from sudden surgery, but between needing to finish her thesis for her final college semester and the top-level grant proposal at the non-profit where she worked, her overwhelm had reached crisis-level.
She was an entry-level coordinator at a non-profit, trying to draft a high-level grant proposal on a basement-level budget, all while keeping her grades up so she wouldn’t lose her scholarship. Her boss, a mid-level executive, loved to level accusations of incompetence at the staff to cover her own tracks.
She opened her laptop on the passenger seat, trying to find a baseline level of focus. She stared at the screen, manually adjusting levels on a photography layout for the proposal brochure, until the text blurred into a haze of deficit-level exhaustion.
After a while, she glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. If she ran upstairs now, she could give her mother a quick kiss, then look the attending physician level in the eye and ask him to level with her about whether her mother’s blood sugar was finally leveling off.
Then she would quickly look for a quiet corner to daven Mincha. Finding the time to daven lately felt like an elite-level scheduling miracle, but not davening was outside her comfort level.
Running on Fumes
Her phone buzzed again. It was Chani, reminding her about Leah’s engagement party tonight. Sara closed her eyes. Her energy levels were at a new low, and the thought of putting on makeup and making surface-level small talk felt entirely beyond her current capabilities. She didn’t want to stoop to a low-level of anti-social, but her mental pain level had reached a whole new level.
She shut her laptop, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the rain, determined to keep her life moving forward, one intense level at a time.
Taking the Scenic Route
I know I could have skipped that whole story and started the article here. I could have opened with a sentence like, “Today we’re discussing the concept of ‘levels’ in shidduchim.” But that’s not how my brain works. My brain prefers to take the long way around the block, stop for a coffee, have some fun, and only then arrive at the destination.
Some people think in straight lines. They start with a point, explain the point, and end with the point. I don’t do that. I like to wander a little, look at things from odd angles, connect dots that don’t seem to belong in the same puzzle, and take the scenic route just because it’s more interesting.
My writing doesn’t follow the classic “here’s the topic, here’s the conclusion” format. I make sense of things better when I can play with the idea a bit — think outside the box, color beyond the lines, and say things in a way that feels alive.
Welcome to Shidduch Lingo
You might be wondering why I just used the word level enough times to qualify as an Olympic-level overuse.
That’s kind of the point.
It’s crazy how we use level so often without even thinking about it. We use it for our jobs, our health, and our sanity. We check our gas level, cholesterol level, stress level, and caffeine level. We level a shelf, level up in a game, and try to stay level-headed when things go wrong.
Then we enter shidduchim, where apparently everyone has a level, wants a certain level, or is worried about someone else’s frumkeit level.
Before a date even happens, the parents are checking the family’s financial level and their level of open-mindedness, the shadchan is gauging everyone’s flexibility level, the guys are asking about her Tznius level, and the girls are asking about his level of commitment to learning.
But it is what is said after the date that I want to talk about.
“I need someone on a deeper level.“
It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? It feels spiritual, meaningful, and emotionally evolved. But when you stop and ask, “What does that actually mean?” do you have an answer? How do you even measure a date’s depth level? Do you bring a tape measure to the hotel lobby?
Think about Sara in the parking lot. She is completely overwhelmed. If she were on a date, she would probably be looking for someone who can talk about deep spiritual and intellectual concepts, but would that kind of depth help her deal with her boss, finish her thesis, or take care of her mother?
When people say they want someone on a “deeper level,” they usually mean they want an intellectual superstar. They picture themselves sitting across from a spouse at the Shabbos table, having intense discussions about the world’s problems, psychology, or complex hashkafic ideas.
Don’t get me wrong. A great conversation is wonderful, but do you need to marry a philosopher to have a deep, fulfilling marriage?
Picture this scene in your future: The kitchen is a disaster, the kids are crying, your work deadlines are piling up, and you’ve had a brutal day. What kind of “depth” do you need in a spouse at that moment?
Do you need a spouse who wants to analyze the existential crisis of modern society? Or do you need a spouse who notices the exhaustion in your eyes, rolls up their sleeves, and says, “I will deal with the kids and the dishes, you go sit down with a hot cup of tea.”
True depth in a marriage isn’t measured by the complexity of your vocabulary, your IQ, or your high-level theories, but by the size of your heart and your capacity to care.
The “Boring Spouse” Panic
I can already hear the pushback. The moment I tell people to stop looking for a deeper person, a collective panic sets in. Their immediate defense mechanism kicks in: “But I don’t want to marry someone boring! I need to be intellectually stimulated!”
I am not saying you should settle for a lifetime of dull, surface-level conversations. It doesn’t mean you should marry someone who stares blankly at you across the Shabbos table. You absolutely need to find your spouse interesting. But when you get hyper-focused on chasing a vague “deeper level”, you lose sight of what actually matters. When you stop obsessing over an intellectual fantasy, you can open your eyes to the genuine depth that keeps a relationship alive.
The Real Measure of Depth
So, if depth in a relationship isn’t about being an intellectual genius, what is it?
Real depth isn’t academic, it’s relational. It is all about how you treat each other when things get tough.
When life gets heavy, being on a “deeper level” means having the emotional safety to look your spouse in the eye and say, “I’m completely overwhelmed,” knowing they won’t judge you. It takes a real depth of character to notice when your spouse’s smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes, and to stop what you’re doing to ask what’s wrong.
Leveling Up Your Search
So, if you’re out there searching for someone on that elusive “deeper level”, let’s change the definition.
Don’t just look for someone who can talk for hours about the meaning of life, share deep psychological insights, or analyze human behavior in theory. Look for a person with a deep capacity for kindness, a deep well of resilience, and a deep commitment to showing up when life gets messy.
The best relationships aren’t built on deep talks or long, philosophical conversations.
They’re built on solid ground and the practical reality of creating a life together, one level at a time.
And if this felt like “too much level”, good. That’s exactly how overused the word becomes in shidduchim.
We need to stop and ask what level actually matters.
