We don’t get to choose what survives.
For three weeks, flames consumed everything. The Bais Hamikdash—that magnificent building of carved cedar and gleaming gold, where Hashem’s presence dwelled among marble pillars and intricate tapestries—was reduced to ash and rubble. The Romans methodically destroyed every sacred vessel, every precious element, every carefully crafted detail that had taken years to build. They tore down the towering walls, scattered the stones, and left behind only devastation where once stood the most beautiful structure in the world.
But one section of the outer wall refused to fall.
One wall.
This weathered, cracked stretch of stone witnessed everything—the glory, the destruction, the aftermath. It absorbed the heat of those flames, felt the tremors as everything around it collapsed, and somehow it stayed standing.
We don’t know why it alone survived. There’s no clear reason, no obvious explanation. It just did.
And now, thousands of years later, this wall—this survivor—has become the holiest place we have. The Kosel is raw, battered, and marked by time. It doesn’t look like much – just old stones with cracks running through them. But we travel from across the globe to daven there, to touch it, to feel its holiness.
We cry against its surface. We pour our deepest pain into its ancient stones.
Not in spite of what it’s been through, but because of it.
The Ones Still Standing
Some people are exactly like that wall. They’ve lived through their own kind of destruction, their own version of those three weeks where everything was crumbling around them. But they’re still persevering, still pushing forward, still hoping.
There’s a girl whose résumé keeps getting passed over. Not because she isn’t beautiful, accomplished, or kind. But because someone scribbled two words next to her name: “Divorced parents.”
There’s a guy who checks every single box— great personality, impeccable character, has a plan for parnassah, and is kovea itim. But his profile keeps getting pushed aside because someone wrote: “Broken home.”
There are thousands of guys and girls just like these who get passed over for the uncomplicated, safer options.
We’ve created a faulty shidduch ranking system.
At the top: kids from intact homes, the ones that look good from the outside.
At the bottom: those with a “story.” The ones who’ve lived through things that were never part of their plan.
There’s a cruelty in how quickly we reduce someone’s life to a few words:
“Complicated family.”
“Not such a great home.”
“Divorced parents.”
“Lots of baggage.”
The implication is clear: imperfect = risk. And we want guarantees. Clean stories. Neat boxes.
But the truth is, people who’ve lived through something difficult and still want to love, still want to build, still believe in marriage—they are often the most grounded, emotionally aware, and compassionate people you will ever meet. They’ve seen what pain looks like, and they’ve decided they don’t want to pass it on.
This is what resilience looks like.
That girl who moved between houses each week has learned to create stability wherever she goes, to build a sense of home from scratch because she’s had to figure it out for herself. She knows how to make people feel welcome because she remembers what it felt like not to belong.
That guy who grew up managing family chaos has developed an emotional intelligence that others never had to learn. He can sense when someone needs support before they even realize it themselves, and he knows how to offer comfort without making it about him.
The one from the house that never felt like home is determined to build something different, something real. She knows what emotional connection looks like because she’s felt its absence, and she won’t settle for relationships that exist only on the surface.
The girl whose mother was severely depressed and barely functional. She spent her childhood taking care of everyone else. Now she knows how to truly care for people without losing herself.
That’s not baggage. That’s treasures.
That’s not damaged. That’s transcendent.
These people have been tested in ways that people from “perfect” homes, easy backgrounds, and uncomplicated families haven’t. They’ve developed muscles that you can’t build in a perfect environment, learned lessons that can’t be taught in classrooms. They’ve figured out how to be their own source of strength when external supports failed them.
They understand pain, so they’re gentle with other people’s wounds. They know what it feels like to be overlooked or dismissed, so they see people that others miss. They’ve learned to hope despite disappointment, to trust despite betrayal, to love despite having been hurt.
And no, not everyone with a difficult childhood turned their challenges into a TED Talk.
Many are struggling. We also can’t say that people from stable homes haven’t faced challenges. Everyone carries something. Struggle isn’t limited to one kind of story. But just like you wouldn’t assume someone is ready for a strong, healthy marriage simply because they come from a solid home, don’t assume the opposite about someone from a “broken” one.
Every person is more than their background. Take the time to understand the full picture, not just a single line on paper.
And by the way, no one really knows what goes on behind closed doors. The family that looks flawless from the outside might be quietly falling apart.
Look for the walls
If you’re dating or have a child in shidduchim, don’t be so quick to scroll past the name with a “complicated background.” Don’t disqualify someone because they come from a divorce or had a journey. Ask: What strength did they forge from that? How did they grow? What still stands inside them?
When looking for your future spouse, don’t just look for what appears flawless or perfect on paper.
Look for the people who have already weathered storms and are still standing.
Look for the ones who’ve learned that love is a choice, not just a feeling.
Look for the ones who know that marriage takes intention, not just good luck.
Look for the ones who’ve seen relationships fail and have spent years figuring out how to make them succeed.
Look for the ones who’ve been through destruction and chose to keep building.
Look for the walls.
To those still standing
If you’re the one who carries that story – if your childhood felt like your own Three Weeks – please don’t doubt your worth.
You’re not disqualified.
You’re not broken.
You are the wall.
You withstood the fire and survived when everything else collapsed.
You’re still here. You’re still standing. You’re still building.
That’s the kind of resilience and strength that lasting marriages depend on.
Miriam
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