Recently, while we were preparing to host families for a Shabbat meal, one of my children expressed annoyance upon learning that none of the guests included a friend of theirs. I understood the frustration. Who wants to spend an evening at a meal where there is no one to hang out with?

But it got me thinking about what we are teaching when families gather for Shabbat. While sometimes the pairings work out perfectly and every child has a friend, there are many times when children may find themselves at a table without a familiar peer, left to figure out how to navigate the gathering. I've watched children respond in different ways. Some stay at the table, maybe joining the adults' conversation (or maybe learning to tolerate a little boredom!) Others strike up conversations with unfamiliar children, or find themselves playing with kids of different ages. 

What strikes me is that none of these experiences is the reason we host Shabbat dinner. We don't invite people into our homes to teach our children social flexibility or to give them practice navigating unfamiliar situations. We gather because relationships and community matter. And yet, simply by participating in these gatherings, our children may develop some of the very qualities we work so hard to nurture in them. There is something powerful about experiences that shape our children without being designed specifically for their benefit.

When I began writing “The Story of Pressman” in 2019, I wanted to create space for us to question some of the assumptions that shape modern parenting. Over the years, I've written about independence and disappointment, boredom and belonging, kindness and accountability. Running through many of these reflections has been a growing awareness of how intensely contemporary parenting focuses on the individual child. We work hard to understand our children's personalities, recognize their feelings, and create experiences that build confidence, encourage independence, and foster belonging. And I believe deeply in this approach - children deserve to be seen and known for their particular strengths, challenges, and needs.

But I wonder whether, in our efforts to cultivate the qualities we want for our children, do we sometimes overlook the value of experiences that aren't organized around them? Have we become so accustomed to asking what an experience will offer our individual child that we sometimes forget to ask what it means to participate in something larger than ourselves?

As I reflect on the ideas I've explored over the past six years in these articles, and on the qualities I hope we're cultivating in our children, I find myself in awe that so many of the things contemporary parenting culture is trying hard to nurture - resilience, belonging, and a sense of purpose - are things that Jewish tradition has been helping people practice for generations. But the paradox is that Jewish tradition often cultivates these qualities not by creating experiences around the needs of the individual, but rather by inviting us into a collective life of shared rituals, relationships, and responsibilities.

Judaism teaches us that much of what gives our lives meaning comes from the commitments we make to others. When someone dies, we don't wait for a convenient time to offer comfort; we interrupt our routines to bury the dead and surround mourners with support throughout shiva. We attend smachot, even when our calendars are full, because celebrating someone else's joy is part of what it means to belong to a community. We invite people into our homes, even when we might prefer an evening alone, because hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests, asks us to notice those who might otherwise be lonely and make room for them at our tables and in our lives.

These practices aren't designed primarily for our personal growth. We comfort mourners because they need comfort, not because doing so will make us more resilient. We invite people to our homes because inclusivity and hospitality matter, not because we learn social flexibility. And yet, through these commitments, we develop the relationships, adaptability, and sense of purpose that we hope to cultivate in our children. It’s striking that the very communal experiences that help our children thrive sometimes require them to put their own preferences second.

Of course, there is an important distinction between asking children to set aside their preferences and asking them to ignore their genuine needs. Resistance to a Shabbat meal rooted in anxiety or sensory needs, for example, is different from resistance rooted in disappointment about the guest list. We want children who can advocate for themselves, think independently, and recognize when they need support. But we also want them to understand that their individual preferences cannot always be the organizing principle of family and communal life. Sometimes we participate because our presence matters to others, even when we would rather be doing something else.

And I want to name: this isn’t always easy. Sometimes it's simpler to leave a whining child at home when visiting an elderly relative, or to arrange the guest list so our child is guaranteed a friend at the Shabbat table. And sometimes those accommodations make sense. But we also need to be willing to let our children experience disappointment, frustration, or discomfort without immediately trying to resolve it for them. We need to trust that they can navigate experiences that aren't organized around their preferences, and recognize that doing so may help them develop the resilience, belonging, and sense of purpose we so deeply want for them. Because perhaps one of the most powerful ways to help our children grow is to include them in experiences that were never designed with their individual development in mind - even when there's no one their age at the Shabbat table.