Seeing that I couldn’t change my background, I knew the answer was to keep learning what I could when I could. But as my life became busier, it was harder to find times that worked, harder to be consistent, and acquiring new knowledge often took a backseat.

When I discovered Nach Yomi through an article I wrote for Family First, it sounded like a dream. If I followed the program, I’d learn through Neviim and Kesuvim in two years. Then maybe some of those homework assignments would become manageable. Though seeing as how I couldn’t even make it through a month of reciting Tehillim without trailing off around halfway through, it seemed more like an unattainable dream.

But if I’m a fool for anything, it’s the potential. Plus, it was right after October 7.

I found the daily learning poignant and powerful. We were fighting for our land in the present day while I was listening to the accounts of our ancestors fighting for our land in ancient times. It was comforting and grounding to get a daily reminder of our history, of all the troubles and challenges we have faced as a nation and how Hashem’s love for us has endured. How we have endured.

Life was still busy, but the nature of the shiurim was that I could listen in the kitchen (until I was interrupted either by my need to do something noisy or by my children starting a conversation with me); or in the car (which also wasn’t ideal since I’d often reach my destination before the lesson was finished). My favorite place to listen was while folding laundry; nobody interrupted me there, and learning made the chore much more enjoyable.

Through the cycle of the year and the events of my life, this learning accompanied me. Through Purim, Pesach, Shavuos; through my daughter’s bas mitzvah and the hectic end-of-year season where I play piano for multiple pre-K graduations; through vacations and Tishrei, I moved through sefer after sefer. When I reached Divrei HaYamim, I realized that I was actually going to finish.

It felt amazing to know that I would accomplish a goal that had seemed so out of reach, and enriching to have learned so much. But even more satisfying was the realization that the insecurity that had shadowed me for so many years was a whisper of what it used to be.

The other day, I was picking up one of my sons from night seder. There were just a few minutes left in the shiur I was listening to, so when he slid into the passenger seat, I asked if he minded if I finished.

He shrugged, “I literally do not care.” (This may be a paraphrase, but the vibe is accurate.)

I resumed the podcast, a shiur on Divrei HaYamim Alef, and the teacher’s voice filled the van with details of Dovid Hamelech’s life. We rode in silence until my son piped up unexpectedly.

“Achitofel? I remember him. Didn’t he rebel against Dovid Hamelech?” Incredibly, for the rest of the way home we had a conversation about this part of our history.

And then there was my daughter, no longer eight years old, who asked me during another carpool (how many meaningful interactions with my children happen in my minivan?): “Right, Mommy, you, like, learn Navi every day?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I replied, distractedly thinking about the many things I needed to do when I got home.

“I want to do it with you when you start again.”

And I realized that it never really mattered how much or how little I’d learned as a child. It’s not knowledge that I’m passing down — it’s the love of learning itself. That is a true source of confidence.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)