Trump's Shabbat Proclamation and America's Founding Promise
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On the morning of my biggest test, I realized I’d already failed where it mattered most.
It was supposed to be one of the most important mornings of my life.
I had been preparing for nine months—studying obsessively, barely sleeping, blocking out everything else. This was my shot at a new chapter. A new career. A new level of success. Nine months to give birth to a new life,
The Series 7 exam is like a rite of passage for anyone entering the world of finance. I was determined to pass it and launch myself into the high-stakes, high-reward game of investment brokerage. I had convinced myself that passing this test was the gateway to everything I wanted: freedom, purpose, philanthropy. I told myself, “Once I pass this, I’ll be able to help more people. I’ll be able to give more tzedakah. I’ll be doing this for a higher cause.”
At least, that’s what I thought.
I didn’t realize how much I had been sacrificing along the way.
I had become emotionally distant from my wife and children. My spiritual practices—once central to my day—had become secondary, if not entirely absent. I wasn’t praying with intention. I wasn’t present at home. I wasn’t connected to myself.
I was consumed. Driven. And, in hindsight, deeply off-balance.
That morning, as I sat alone reviewing notes before the exam, my daughter Batya, called me. She was young—just a child—but wise in that way children often are.
“Good luck, Tattie,” she said sweetly. “I love you.”
And I lost it.
I broke down, sobbing in a way I hadn’t in years.
Not because I was afraid of failing the test. But because I realized I had already failed something far more important.
I had failed to be present. I had failed to nurture my relationships. I had failed to stay connected to what truly mattered: my family, my values, my soul.
In that moment of breakdown, I had a strange spiritual insight. I felt like I was standing before the Heavenly Court—not a testing center.
The exam didn’t feel like a professional milestone anymore. It was a reckoning that forced me to ask:
What did I chase?
What did it cost me?
What did I become in the process?
Was I aligned with who I was meant to be?
I passed the exam. But the real lesson came from the tears.
Here’s what I began to learn that day—lessons that still guide me:
There’s a difference between being busy and being aligned.
I had confused activity with meaning. Motion with direction.
Judaism teaches that six days a week we act, but on Shabbat we become. That’s not just a ritual—it's a rhythm for life. I had been living as if there were only six days in the week. No pause. No reflection. No soul.
That imbalance eventually caught up with me.
My ambition wasn’t the problem. My disconnection was.
The Torah doesn’t ask us to stop building. It asks us to build with intention. The Mishkan, the Tabernacle that served as the spiritual center for Jews journeying 40 years in the desert, wasn’t just about gold and acacia wood. It was about heart.
As the verse says, “Each person whose heart moved him gave…” (Exodus 25:2)
I had lost touch with that heart.
It’s easy to tell ourselves we’re working hard for our families.
But if the people we love are getting only our leftovers—our exhaustion, our stress, our absence—then what are we really giving them?
My daughter’s call that morning reminded me that no amount of professional success can replace presence.
She didn’t want a broker. She wanted her father.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, once said: “The real test of a life is not what we build on the outside—but what we become on the inside.”
I had been so focused on the outer scorecard—titles, tests, recognition—that I had neglected the inner one. The one that asks:
That morning I decided I would never again let a worldly milestone blind me to what really matters.
If your ambition costs you your soul, it’s too expensive. And if you succeed outwardly but feel empty inwardly—that’s not success. That’s disconnection.
Here’s what I’ve learned to do since that day:
Before I check my phone, I check my soul. I ask:
“What does God want from me today?”
It changes how I approach everything.
I block out time for learning, prayer, and deep connection—just like I’d block a meeting with an investor.
Because what we schedule is what we value.
Ambition is a gift. But it needs direction.
Regularly ask: Is this still aligned with who I want to be?
If the answer is no—pivot. With courage.
I still work hard. I still chase dreams. But now, I try to remember that the greatest achievement is staying true to my soul while I do it.
Because the real exam isn’t pass or fail.
The real exam is whether I can look at the people I love—and at God—and say:
“I didn’t forget who I am.”
That’s the Series 7 I’m preparing for now.
Rabbi Irwin Katsof is the author of Living Dangerously: My Struggle to Get Rich Without Losing My Soul (available on Amazon here), and the founder of the Living Dangerously Companion—an AI-based coaching tool that helps professionals align purpose and profit.
Every word is an inspiration.
Yasher koach!
Great!