There’s this weird, quiet heaviness that creeps in sometime between the first “Where will you be for Pesach?” message and the moment you find yourself watching a stranger on Instagram scrub their fridge in slow motion. You can’t exactly name it—but you feel it.
The ache of knowing that, once again, you’ll be showing up to Yom Tov alone.
No one really talks about this part — what it’s like to watch everyone else rush around, lists in hand, arms full of kids and groceries, and complain about potato starch — and you feel like you’re somehow outside the scene.
You’re not cleaning for anyone. You’re not shopping for a spouse who insists on non-gebrokts. You’re not menu planning for a family of six. You’re just trying to manage your own emotions and maybe remember where your Haggadah ended up last year.
Being single on Pesach can bring up a very specific kind of loneliness. The whole season is built around family, togetherness, shared memories. And when that’s something you’re still waiting for, the days leading up to Yom Tov can feel especially sharp.
While everyone else is buzzing about menus and sleep arrangements and Chol Hamoed plans, you might be sitting with a very different kind of mental list.
Where am I sleeping? Will I feel welcome? Can I handle this conversation again?
If that feels like you—this one is for you. Not to sugarcoat it or to toss out “look on the bright side” advice. Just some thoughts, reminders, and tools to help you walk into Yom Tov with a little more calm and a little more self-kindness.
Because no, this isn’t easy. Surviving Pesach when you’re single can be tough. And you don’t have to go through it totally empty-handed.
Know That It’s Okay If This Feels Like A Lot
Let’s say this clearly: you don’t need to “positive vibes only” your way through Yom Tov.
You’re allowed to be grateful for the invitation and quietly dread being a guest again.
You’re allowed to love the Yom Tov energy and still feel like an outsider.
Mixed feelings don’t mean you’re doing something wrong. They mean you’re:
Human.
Aware.
Honest.
Don’t let anyone—especially that little voice in your own head—convince you that you’re too emotional for feeling this. You’re a human being trying to hold joy, disappointment, longing, and gratitude in one tired soul. That’s not weakness. That’s courage.
When Everyone Else’s Life Looks Perfect
Pesach comes with its own brand of “highlight reel torture.” Matching outfits. Beautiful tablescapes. Family selfies in the sunshine. Gourmet food. Love. Laughter.
It’s a lot.
If you feel your chest tighten just scrolling through WhatsApp or Instagram… pause.
Step away.
Mute. Log off. Reclaim your mental space.
No one posts the tears, the tension, or the complicated feelings under the surface.
But they’re there.
You know it. Still, it helps to remember that you know it.
And then it’s here. The Seder. The table. The people. The moment you’ve been dreading (and kind of overthinking) all week.
Here’s how to get through it without falling apart.
Choosing a Seat at the Table as a Single Guest
If you can, scope out your seat like it’s strategic. Because it kind of is.
You’re not just picking a chair—you’re choosing your home base for the next several hours of singing, storytelling, and possibly listening to someone explain their brisket recipe in painful detail.
Try to sit near someone who’s easy. Ideally not the person who asks if you’ve “tried that new shadchan in Lakewood” while you’re mid-matzah. One good seatmate won’t fix everything, but they can make the whole night feel a little less exhausting—and maybe even a little more bearable.
Let Your Brain Wander (On Purpose)
There comes a point when the conversation at the table moves to places you can’t follow.
Tuition costs. Simchas. Which bungalow colony everyone’s in this summer.
You start to feel like you’re just sitting there, observing a life that isn’t yours yet.
In those moments, give yourself permission to mentally check out.
Rank macaroons. (They are all bad.)
Imagine your dream Chol Hamoed day (it may or may not involve avoiding people and traffic).
Plan your next iced coffee order.
This isn’t rude. It’s just stepping away—mentally—for a minute,from a pain that’s already hovering too close to the surface.
Be Seen and Heard
In the previous section, I gave you permission to tune out the noise. To let the conversation flow around you and slowly fade away. But you don’t have to be invisible the entire evening—even if it sometimes feels like you are.
You don’t have to launch into a TED Talk or fake enthusiasm about carpool drama, but you can contribute to the conversation – even if it’s with some humor about how you can relate to sleepless nights – not from crying babies – but staying up all night to finish a work project you procrastinated doing until the last possible minute.
That’s you saying: Hey, I’m here. I exist. I count.
Because you do.
Step Away Without Guilt
You’re not a bad guest. You’re just a person trying not to lose it between the soup and the main course.
If things start to feel too loud, too much, or just too… everything—step away. No one’s stopping you. Go refill your water. Pretend to be very interested in what’s happening in the kitchen. Retreat to the bathroom and count how many tiles don’t match (there’s always at least one).
I’ve done it. Most people I know have done it. It’s practically part of the minhag at this point.
No one’s giving out prizes for staying at the table while your insides are staging a quiet meltdown.
Take the time. Take the space. Come back when you’re ready. Not when you think you should be.
Look for One Moment That Feels Real
It doesn’t have to be meaningful. It just has to be real.
Maybe it’s locking eyes with your 14-year-old cousin who looks just as done as you feel.
Or someone whispering a joke during maggid that makes you laugh-snort even though it’s totally inappropriate.
That’s enough. Just something that cuts the tension for a second, breaks through the fog of “I don’t belong,” and makes you think, “Okay. I can get through the rest of this.”
Pause the Spiral
There’s usually a moment—somewhere between the fish and the soup —when the spiral kicks in.
Why is everyone else settled?
Is something wrong with me?
What if it’s always like this?
It’s like your brain picks that exact moment to corner you with fear, doubt, and the same tired thoughts you’ve had a hundred times.
That’s when you need to say to yourself, “Not now. This isn’t helping.”
Then bring your attention to something small and grounding: the way the light flickers on the silverware. The sound of the person sitting near you slurping their soup. (Ouch.)
The purple stain on the white tablecloth from the spilled grape juice.
It doesn’t solve anything, but it interrupts the loop long enough for you to snap out of the overthinking mode—at least for a second.
Be Your Own Friend
If someone you cared about was walking into Yom Tov in your shoes, what would you say to them?
Probably something kind. Something steady. Something like:
You’re doing better than you think. This isn’t easy, and you’re showing up anyway.
You deserve to hear that from yourself, too.
You can write it down before Yom Tov – just a sentence or two and slip it into your Haggadah or your coat pocket. Pull it out when you need it.
Speak to yourself with kindness. If you wouldn’t say it to a friend, don’t say it to yourself.
You Made It to the Table.
You got dressed.
You showed up.
You smiled.
You answered the awkward questions.
You listened to stories you couldn’t relate to.
You kept going, even when it felt hard.
No one sees how much inner work that takes. But you do. Give yourself credit for it.
It’s not nothing. That’s strength. Quiet, invisible strength.
And even if no one else notices, I hope you do.
Have a Chag Kasher V’Sameach!
Miriam
