Sept. 2025
Ben Shragge

On Sept.20, I turn 40. According to a Jewish maxim, this is the age when we attain binah (understanding). The same maxim says that age 50 is when we can give counsel. So, as a still relatively young man, I’ll refrain from doing so.
Nevertheless, now seems like a good time to reflect on what I’ve learned, or am still learning, from these last four decades. As the father of two young children, I’m reminded daily that the skills I once took for granted must at one point be taught. But “understanding” does not mean the ability to brush your teeth, read letters, or count to 10. Rather, it’s the insight that these and thousands of other lessons were indeed once taught to us, and that it’s our privilege and duty to teach them in turn.

In other words, we are parts of a whole: a family, a community, a civilization, and ultimately, humanity itself. With that understanding should come gratitude and responsibility. We should feel grateful to our ancestors, who shaped the world—however flawed—in which we live. We should feel responsible for our descendants, who will inherit the world in whatever shape we leave it. Perhaps it’s possible to achieve this understanding at a young age. But experience is what makes abstract notions real. Losing my father imbued me with gratitude to those who taught me. Having children filled me with responsibility for those I’ll teach. We need to live before life’s lessons can sink in.

The paradox is that being part of a whole makes you a stronger individual. As a father and a husband, I have loved ones who rely on me. That creates positive pressure to be reliable in turn. In particular, having two small kids means I don’t have time for youthful indulgences like self-doubt and existential angst. You can’t spend all day in your head when there are mouths out there to feed—both literally and figuratively. I wake up in the morning unburdened by limitless freedom. Instead, I’m liberated by the tasks I’m duty-bound to complete. Feeling this sense of duty concentrates the mind wonderfully. And the feeling of duty fulfilled puts it wonderfully at ease. Of course, I have less free time now than I did before kids. But I’ve learned that free time is only meaningful when you’ve earned it.

Understanding that you’re part of a whole also brings you closer to other people. As the Roman playwright Terence wrote, “I am human; nothing human is alien to me.” When we’re young, we sometimes suffer under the illusion that we’re special. We suffer because the illusion separates us from other people, who are more similar to us than not. It also makes our problems seem uniquely burdensome instead of generally human. When you read enough books or talk to enough people, you come to realize that no situation or thought is wholly original. That means it’s not on you alone to solve or think through it. Psychologist Daniel Gilbert refers to the “invisibility problem”: our tendency to minimize the inner lives of others, as compared to our own, because we can’t see beneath their surface. But, of course, other people can’t see our inner lives, either. That’s why recognizing that we’re distinct but still share a common essence—what the Mishnah calls the “seal of Adam”—frees us to open up and connect.

Separation, too, is part of gaining understanding. Family will always be family and home will always be home. But at a certain point, comfort starts to feel like stasis. As I grew older, I began traveling to other countries. When the opportunity presented itself, I ended up moving to one. There I met my wife, and we formed a new family and home of our own. According to Ecclesiastes, there’s “a time to plant and a time to uproot that which is planted.” I had to uproot myself before I could plant new roots.

If I had my current understanding back in my twenties, I would’ve had a happier time of it. But I wouldn’t have that understanding if I hadn’t made mistakes, misread myself and other people, and earned the regrets seared into my memory. At the same time, understanding the purpose of regret—to teach you a lesson—reduces its burden. I’m sure I’ll continue to make mistakes into my forties and beyond, but I’m also sure that I’ll continue to learn from them. And who knows? By the time I’m 50, I may have some counsel to give.