Mark: Most self-help tells you to fix your anxiety. To manage it, to reduce it, to medicate it. But what if the real secret is that your anxiety isn't a problem to be fixed at all? Michelle: Okay, I’m listening. Because my anxiety definitely feels like a problem to be fixed. Mark: What if that inner angst, that restlessness, is actually a signal that your soul is trying to break free? That it’s something beautiful, even necessary? Michelle: Wow. That is a completely different way of looking at it. That’s not fixing a bug, that’s listening to a feature. Where is this idea coming from? Mark: That radical idea is at the heart of Michal Oshman's bestselling book, Break Your Chains: Discover Jewish Wisdom to Unleash Your Potential and Live a Life of Joy. Michelle: And what's fascinating about Oshman is her background. This isn't just a spiritual guru writing from a monastery. She's a high-flying tech executive—she's been a culture and leadership expert at TikTok and Facebook. She’s living in that high-pressure, modern world while drawing on these ancient ideas. Mark: Exactly. And her journey starts with a question that was literally posted on a wall at Facebook, a question that completely upended her life: "What would you do if you weren't afraid?" Michelle: I love that. It’s a question that stops you in your tracks. Because most of us, if we're honest, have a very long list of answers.

Mark: It is. And for Oshman, that question forced her to confront what she calls her personal Mitzrayim. In Hebrew, Mitzrayim is the word for Egypt, the place of slavery in the Passover story. But in Jewish wisdom, it means something much deeper. It’s not a physical place; it’s a state of being. It’s any narrow place, any internal prison of fear, anxiety, or limiting beliefs that keeps you enslaved. Michelle: So your Mitzrayim could be your imposter syndrome, your fear of public speaking, or even a toxic relationship. It’s your personal Egypt. Mark: Precisely. And Oshman was living in a five-star Mitzrayim. On the outside: successful career, beautiful family, everything looked perfect. But inside, she was crippled by anxiety. She describes imagining worst-case scenarios constantly, feeling this deep sense of dread. Michelle: I think a lot of people can relate to that. The gap between the external resume and the internal reality. Did she try to get help? Mark: Oh, yes. She went through years of traditional therapy. But she found it limiting. She felt like her therapists were obsessed with her past traumas—like her father’s work as a forensic pathologist, which exposed her to death at a young age. They kept digging into her "unfinished business." Michelle: So therapy was making her look backward, but she needed a way to move forward? Or... inward? Mark: Exactly. It felt like they were performing an autopsy on her past, but it wasn't giving her life. The breakthrough came when she stumbled upon Hasidic Jewish wisdom, specifically a text called the Tanya. And it gave her a completely new concept to work with: the Neshama. Michelle: Okay, what is a Neshama? Mark: The Neshama is the soul. But the metaphor the Tanya uses is what changed everything for her. It describes the soul as a flame, like the flame of a candle. And by its very nature, a flame always flickers upwards. It’s constantly trying to detach from the wick and return to its source, even if that means it will be extinguished. Michelle: Whoa. So that feeling of restlessness, that inner angst she was calling anxiety… Mark: Was not a disease. It was her Neshama, her soul, flickering upwards, yearning to grow, to break free from the confines of her Mitzrayim. Her anxiety wasn't a sign she was broken; it was a sign her soul was alive and fighting. Michelle: That completely reframes anxiety. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature. It’s the engine of your own growth trying to start. Mark: It’s the engine. And this is where her perspective really diverges from some clinical views. She’s not saying don’t get professional help. But she’s adding a layer of meaning to the struggle itself. Michelle: I can see that. Though, to be fair, some readers have pointed out that the book offers more spiritual comfort than a practical strategy for, say, a clinical anxiety disorder. It’s a framework for meaning, not necessarily a treatment plan. Mark: A perfect distinction. And Oshman would likely agree. She was deeply inspired by Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz. Frankl argued that the primary human drive is not pleasure, but the pursuit of meaning. He said despair is suffering without meaning. Oshman’s discovery of the Neshama gave her suffering a meaning. It wasn't random chemical noise; it was the cry of her soul.

Michelle: Okay, so if the soul is this flame trying to break free, that implies action. It's not a passive idea. You can’t just sit there and say, "Oh, how beautiful, my soul is flickering." How do you actually do that, especially when you're terrified? Mark: You’ve hit on the second major theme of the book. It’s a concept captured in a famous Jewish song, based on the teachings of a great rabbi, Nachman of Breslov. The lyrics are: "The whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing is to have no fear at all." Gesher Tzar Me’od. Michelle: A very narrow bridge. That’s a pretty accurate description of life some days. One wrong step and you’re over the edge. Mark: It is. But the point isn't to avoid the bridge. The point is to cross it. And the only way to cross it is to replace fear with action. To illustrate this, Oshman tells one of the most powerful stories in the book—about her grandmother, Chana. Michelle: I’m ready. Mark: It’s the early 1940s in Poland. Chana, a young woman, is captured by the SS and forced onto a crowded train. She doesn't know where it's going, but she senses it's a place of death. We now know it was headed to Auschwitz. The train is moving fast, it's dark, and she's terrified. But in that moment of paralyzing fear, instinct takes over. Michelle: What does she do? Mark: She finds a tiny crack in the wooden wall of the train car. She squeezes her body through it, splinters tearing at her skin, and without a second thought, she jumps from the speeding train into the darkness. The Nazis shoot at her as she limps away, but she escapes into a field and survives. Michelle: Wow. That is… that gives me chills. Jumping from a moving train into the unknown. Mark: It’s the ultimate Gesher Tzar Me’od. She was on the narrowest bridge imaginable, and she didn't freeze. She acted. That story, Oshman says, became a cornerstone for her. It’s a visceral reminder that action, any action, is the antidote to the paralysis of fear. Michelle: That really puts my daily anxieties into perspective. My "narrow bridge" might be sending a tough email, not escaping a death train. But the principle is the same: move. Mark: Exactly. And this leads to another key concept: Tikkun. It literally means "repair." Jewish wisdom teaches that we have a responsibility not just to save ourselves, but to repair the world around us. Michelle: So crossing your own 'narrow bridge' isn't just for you, it's about repairing the culture around you? How does that work in, say, a toxic office? Mark: Oshman has some incredible stories about this. Early in her career in the UK, an employment agent told her that her curly hair wasn't "professional" and she should straighten it to be taken seriously. Another time, a colleague commented on her "Jewish nose." These were small acts of cultural "brokenness." Michelle: Microaggressions that make you feel like you don't belong. That you need to hide parts of yourself to succeed. Mark: Yes. And Tikkun, in that context, is about doing the work to repair that culture. For her, it meant learning to have "real conversations." It meant, as she gained influence at Facebook and TikTok, creating environments where people could show up as their whole selves. It meant showing care. Her first manager at Facebook, for example, learned how to pronounce her name—Michal—correctly and would send her "Shabbat Shalom" messages every Friday. Michelle: Such a small thing, but it says, "I see you. All of you." That’s a form of repair. Mark: It's a profound form of repair. It’s fixing the little tears in the fabric of community, whether it’s your family, your team, or the world. And that idea of repairing your culture is really a form of leadership.

Mark: Which brings us to the final, crucial piece of the puzzle: living with purpose. The book argues that the ultimate way to break your chains is to find a purpose larger than your own fear. And in Jewish culture, the highest compliment you can pay someone is to call them a Mensch. Michelle: A Mensch. I've heard that word. It means a good person, right? An honorable person. Mark: A person of integrity, decency, and honor. And Oshman argues that the goal is to lead like a Mensch. This is tied to the concept of Tzedakah, which is often translated as charity, but its root word means justice or righteousness. Leading with Tzedakah means leading with justice and care. Michelle: So being a 'Mensch' as a leader means taming your own ego to make space for others? That feels so counter to the 'strong leader' stereotype. Mark: It’s completely counter. And Oshman learned this the hard way. She tells a raw story about her time in the Israeli army. As a young, 18-year-old commander, she became authoritarian, obsessed with discipline. She thought that's what a strong leader did. Years later, she learned her recruits remembered her as tough and unfeeling. It was a devastating realization. She had let her ego, her chametz, get in the way. Michelle: Her chametz? Mark: Yes, another beautiful metaphor. During Passover, Jews avoid eating chametz, or leavened bread, which puffs up with air. It symbolizes an inflated ego. Instead, they eat matzah, a flat, unleavened bread, which symbolizes humility. Her journey as a leader was about learning to get rid of the chametz—the pride, the ego—and lead with the humility of matzah. Michelle: I love that. So a true leader deflates their own ego to create space for their team to rise. That’s a powerful image. Mark: It is. And it all culminates in the final concept of the book: Teshuva. Again, it’s often translated as "repentance," which sounds heavy and guilt-ridden. But its Hebrew root means "to return." Michelle: Return to what? Mark: To return to yourself. To your Neshama. To the person you were always meant to be. Teshuva is not about beating yourself up for your mistakes. It’s about course-correcting. It’s about acknowledging you’ve strayed from your path and gently, lovingly, returning to it. Every day, every moment, is an opportunity for Teshuva.

Michelle: So when you put it all together, what's the one thread that ties all these ancient ideas—Mitzrayim, Neshama, Tikkun, Teshuva—together for a modern person listening right now? Mark: It's a fundamental reframing. Life isn't a problem to be solved; it's an experience to be lived. Your anxiety, your brokenness, your fears—they aren't flaws in the system. They are the raw material for your growth. Michelle: The cracks are where the light gets in, as they say. Mark: Exactly. The book's ultimate message, rooted in thousands of years of wisdom, is that your greatest struggles are the very things that carve out the space for your greatest growth. There’s a quote from a Hasidic rabbi that Oshman shares that says, "There is nothing more complete than a broken heart." Michelle: Wow. "Your brokenness is your completeness." That’s a thought that will stick with me. Mark: It’s the core of it all. The chains are real, but they are also the key. Michelle: It leaves you with that powerful question from the beginning: "What would you do if you weren't afraid?" It’s not just a thought experiment anymore; it feels like an invitation. Mark: A call to action from your own soul. Michelle: We'd love to hear your thoughts on that. What’s one thing you would do? Find us on our socials and share it with the Aibrary community. We genuinely want to know. Mark: This is Aibrary, signing off.