Taking Back What Was Stolen: A Lesson from Yaakov Aveinu

On trauma, innocence, and the ongoing work of reclaiming ourselves.

When we experience trauma, it can feel like so much has been stolen from us.

Our sense of safety. Our trust. Our joy. Our innocence.

And one of the most painful parts of trauma is the feeling that once those things have been taken away, they're gone forever.

But what if innocence isn't something we either have or lose forever? What if it's something we can continue to create?

I found a beautiful lesson in the Torah's description of Yaakov Aveinu that offers a completely different way of thinking about this.

Yaakov Ish Tam, Yoshev B'Ohalim

The Torah describes Yaakov Aveinu as "Yaakov ish tam, yoshev b'ohalim" — Yaakov was a wholesome, innocent man who dwelled in tents.

We know that sitting in tents is understood as a reference to learning Torah.

But there's something interesting about the wording.

The Torah doesn't describe Yaakov as someone who had sat in tents. It describes him as yoshev b'ohalim — someone who is sitting in tents. It's an ongoing action.

And that raises an interesting question: What does being an ish tam, an innocent or wholesome person, have to do with sitting in the present and learning Torah? How and why are those two descriptions connected?

Yaakov had a traumatic life.

Also, when you think about it, Yaakov Aveinu didn't exactly have a sheltered childhood.

He grew up with a brother who wanted to kill him. His brother Esav is described by Chazal as someone who engaged in murder, sexual violence, and idol worship. Yaakov was exposed to all of that.

And then there was his relationship with his father. Talk about complex relationships!

Yitzchak Aveinu didn't seem to see Esav the way Yaakov and Rivka did. Imagine how confusing and painful that might have been for Yaakov. His mother saw what he saw, but his father, his primary male role model, didn't.

Imagine growing up feeling like, "My father doesn't see what I see. Am I crazy? Am I the one who's wrong?"

Obviously, we can't know exactly what Yaakov experienced emotionally. But looking at his circumstances through the lens of trauma, we can imagine a child who had every reason to lose his sense of safety and innocence.

And yet, the Torah still calls him an ish tam.

He wasn't innocent because he had never been exposed to darkness. He wasn't pure because he didn't know what people were capable of.

He had seen plenty.

And maybe that's exactly the point.

Innocence isn't necessarily something you either have or lose forever. Maybe it's something you can continue to create.

Yaakov's innocence wasn't necessarily a product of his circumstances. It was connected to what he kept choosing to do.

He was yoshev b'ohalim. He kept returning to Torah. He kept nurturing that part of himself.

His innocence wasn't just something he had been given. It was something he was actively maintaining and recreating.

And there's something incredibly hopeful about that.

What If You Could Take It Back?

When someone has experienced trauma, it's easy to feel hopeless about everything that's been lost.

You can't undo what happened. You can't go back and become the person you were before those experiences.

But what if you could take parts of yourself back?

Not innocence in the sense of being naive or sheltered. Not forgetting what you've learned about the world or pretending that bad things don't happen.

But reclaiming the parts of yourself that have gotten tangled up in those experiences.

The things you love. The things that make you feel like you. The parts of yourself that you don't want to surrender just because someone else hurt you.

What if, whenever something triggered you, you started asking yourself a question:

Is this something I want to take back?

Not everything needs to be reclaimed. Not everything is worth the emotional energy.

But if something matters to you, shouldn't the choice be yours?

Sometimes Taking It Back Is as Simple as Listening to a Song

Think about how certain songs can become associated with painful experiences.

Maybe it's a song you genuinely loved, but because of what happened while it was playing, or who you associate it with, hearing it now sends you into a panic.

But you liked that song. It meant something to you. Why should the people or experiences that hurt you get to own it forever? Maybe we can ourselves, "why should I lose this too?"

Sometimes, reclaiming something means slowly and gently working toward being able to enjoy it again.

It doesn't happen overnight. It can take time, effort, and a willingness to work through some very painful feelings, ideally with the right support when needed.

But eventually, that song might become yours again.

And that can be incredibly empowering.

Because it isn't really about the music.

It's about realizing that something can have been taken from you without having to remain lost forever.

Even Cooking for Shabbos Can Be Something to Reclaim

Here's a much more everyday, less traumatic example:

Imagine growing up in a home where preparing for Shabbos was always frantic, stressful, and disorganized.

There was so much chaos around cooking that you grew up believing you hated it.

You might spend years thinking, "I hate cooking for Shabbos. I just don't enjoy it."

But then, one day, you realize something.

Maybe you don't actually hate cooking.

Maybe you hate cooking frantically.

You hate feeling rushed and overwhelmed. You hate the chaos of trying to get everything done without a calm, organized plan.

But cooking itself?

Maybe you actually enjoy it.

Maybe you love cooking slowly, with music or a podcast playing in the background. Maybe you enjoy talking to your friend or sibling while preparing food, or simply having the time and space to enjoy the process.

And maybe, more than anything, you love what cooking allows you to give your family - nurturing for the people you love and providing warmth and connection in your home.

Once you realize that, cooking can become something you want to take back.

You don't have to let your childhood experience of Shabbos preparation dictate what Shabbos preparation feels like in your own home.

You can create something different.

And again, it isn't instant.

You might need to figure out how to make the experience calmer. How to organize yourself differently. How to give yourself enough time. How to build an environment where cooking can actually be enjoyable.

But it's worth the effort when you realize how much it matters to you.

And eventually, preparing for Shabbos can become something that brings genuine joy.

Not because the past didn't happen, but because the past doesn't get to have the final say in how you experience the present.

Giving Back What Isn't Yours, and Taking Back What Is

There's another important piece to this.

There are things that belong to the people who hurt us.

Their choices. Their behavior. Their dysfunction. Their cruelty.

Those things belong to them.

We don't need to carry them around as though they're a reflection of who we are.

We can give those things back.

But there are also things that belong to us that became wrapped up in those experiences.

Our interests. Our joy. Our sense of safety. Our connection to certain people, places, activities, or even parts of our own identity.

And those are the things we get to decide whether we want to reclaim.

I think that's an important distinction.

We don't have to take everything back.

Reclaiming something takes work. It takes time, effort, and emotional energy. And sometimes, the thing simply isn't important enough to us to justify that investment.

That's okay.

But when something does matter, when it's something that genuinely brings us joy or connects us to who we want to be, there's something incredibly powerful about saying:

"No. This belongs to me. I want it back."

The Beauty of Yoshev B'Ohalim

And that brings us back to Yaakov Aveinu.

What I find so beautiful about yoshev b'ohalim is that it's not a one-time achievement.

It's not that Yaakov learned Torah once and became an ish tam forever.

It's an ongoing way of living.

He keeps sitting in the tent. He keeps learning. He keeps nurturing the person he wants to be.

And I think reclaiming ourselves after trauma works much the same way.

We don't just wake up one morning and announce that we've taken everything back.

We do it little by little.

Sometimes it's a song.

Sometimes it's cooking for Shabbos.

Sometimes it's a relationship, an activity, a place, or a part of our personality that we thought we'd lost.

And sometimes, years later, something still triggers us, and we have to revisit that same question:

"Is this something I want to take back?"

If the answer is yes, we work on it.

Not because we have to prove anything. Not because healing means we should be able to do everything we once did.

But because we deserve the opportunity to choose what belongs in our lives.

We can't go back and give our younger selves the innocence they had before everything happened.

But we can continue to cultivate innocence in the sense of wholeness, purity, openness, and connection to the things that matter to us. We can be people who have seen darkness and still choose to nurture goodness.

And maybe that's what being an ish tam really means.

Not someone who has never been hurt.

But someone who keeps choosing, in the present tense, to return to who they want to be.

Someone who keeps taking back what matters.