Dear Matzav Inbox,
I’m not proud to be writing this. But I’m being honest…brutally honest. I want to love other Jews. I really do. I want to feel ahavas Yisroel in my heart. I want to be the kind of person who looks past the flaws, who sees the tzelem Elokim in everyone. But lately, I’ve come to a painful, ugly truth: I just can’t stand people.
Everything gets under my skin. Everything. The way people talk loudly on their phones in public as if the rest of us don’t exist. The way they push their strollers like battering rams down the sidewalks. The way they drive like they’re the only car on the road—double parking in narrow streets, cutting people off, honking like maniacs, or driving like slowpokes and not using blinkers. The way they talk endlessly in shul or daven too loud or lean into my seat.
It’s the woman blocking the entire aisle at the grocery store while scrolling on her phone. The guy who smacks his lips behind you on line. The people who drop tissues, wrappers, and cups on the floor and walk away. The people who chew loudly, sneeze without covering, speak in sing-song voices, or interrupt you mid-sentence to tell you their unrelated thought. The ones who dominate every conversation. The ones who ask nosy, inappropriate questions as if they’re entitled to your life story.
It’s the cliquey mothers at school pick-up. The neighbor who thinks it’s fine to park halfway blocking your driveway. The guy at the simcha who takes eight desserts and tells the waiter it’s for his “table.” The bochur who talks too loud in the bais medrash, the guy in shul who belts out a song off-key and off-beat, and then glares at you as if you’re the weird one.
You want more?

The people who take speakerphone calls in public—on the bus, in line at the store, in the waiting room—like the rest of us are just background noise to their dental insurance drama.
They tailgate you aggressively, fly past you on the road, and then get stuck at the same red light.
They stop dead in the middle of a crowded sidewalk to check a text, causing a mini pileup behind them.
They ask how much you paid for your house or your car with zero shame.
They hijack every conversation to talk about themselves, their kids, their simcha plans, their latest crisis.
They let their children run wild in shul, under the benches, banging on the mechitzah, while claiming “they just love davening.”
They respond to group chats at 2 a.m. as if their night owl tendencies are a public mitzvah.
They say “let’s get together sometime!” and never mean it.
They pretend not to see you waiting patiently in line and just slide ahead like it’s their birthright.
They sigh theatrically during davening, hum loudly through Shemonah Esrei, and shuckle like they’re being judged for best supporting actor in a tefillah.
They take the last bit of cholent at the Kiddush “for their kid” who’s nowhere to be found.
They blast music on their porch as if they’re hosting a kumzitz for all of Brooklyn, and they preface cruelty with “not to be mean, but…”
They announce “this might be lashon hara, but…” as if the warning cancels out the lashon hara that follows.
They leave shopping carts smack in the middle of parking spots, sit on your coat in shul and ask with fake surprise, “Oh, is this yours?”
They offer painful platitudes—“don’t worry, you’ll get your yeshuah soon”—with syrupy smiles when you’re drowning in real pain.
They cough without covering, sneeze into their hands and then shake yours, sniff endlessly instead of blowing their nose, and somehow act like they’re the normal ones.
And maybe they are. Maybe it’s me. But this is what it feels like every single day: a tidal wave of human behavior I just can’t stand.

I could go on and on. I do go on and on—in my head, every day. My brain is a revolving door of resentment and low-key rage. And I hate it.
Because I know this isn’t who I want to be. I know it’s not who I’m supposed to be. I want to have Ahavas Yisroel. I try to imagine what Hashem sees in every one of His children.
But that’s the thing. I try… and fail. Because I just can’t get past how grating, how selfish, how rude people can be. My default reaction to most humans is annoyance. And it’s eating away at me.
So I’m turning to you.
What do I do?
I don’t want platitudes. Don’t tell me to just “look for the good” or “everyone is fighting a battle you can’t see.” I know that. I’ve heard it. And yet, the minute someone breathes loudly next to me in a waiting room, it all flies out the window.
How do I train my brain to be calmer, kinder, more forgiving? How do I soften this edge inside me? How do I stop seeing people as irritants?
I want to be better. Really, I do.
If anyone has an eitzah—a real one—I’m listening.
Signed,A Jew Who Wants to Love, But Is Just So Fed Up

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