What Would You Do If You Weren''t Afraid

What would you do if you weren’t afraid? That simple but piercing question, first seen by Michal Oshman on the wall at Facebook headquarters, changed the direction of her life. It is the question at the heart of her book What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?, which explores how fear, anxiety, and trauma can be transformed through ancient Jewish wisdom and modern psychological insight. Oshman argues that many of us live confined by invisible ‘Egypts’—our mitzrayim, narrow, self-imposed boundaries—and that the way to a life of fulfillment is not through erasing fear but through understanding and transcending it.

Throughout this deeply personal and spiritual guide, she blends memoir and meaning, drawing from both Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning and the Hasidic teachings of the Tanya by Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi. She contends that inside each person burns a flickering flame—called the neshama, or soul—and that this flame can be shielded by layers of fear, pain, and ego, but it never goes out. To free that flame, you must learn to manage fear, discover purpose, grow from brokenness, and connect meaningfully with others.

The Author’s Journey from Fear to Meaning

The journey begins with Oshman’s own struggle with near-constant anxiety. Despite having served as a commanding officer in the Israeli army and climbing to senior corporate ranks, she was ruled by fear—of death, shame, rejection, failure. Therapy and medication did not bring lasting healing. Only when she encountered the question “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” and later discovered Frankl’s idea that humans thrive not through pleasure but through purpose did she start to move forward. Frankl’s logotherapy and her rediscovery of Jewish spiritual psychology inspired her to look beyond Western models of self-help toward her own heritage.

Her awakening happened around Passover—a festival of liberation—which she reinterprets as a metaphor for freeing oneself from inner slavery. The Hebrew word for Egypt, mitzrayim, meaning narrow straits, became a lens through which she saw the spiritual cause of anxiety: being trapped inside restrictive beliefs and fears. The book traces how ten Jewish spiritual principles helped her cross her own “narrow bridge” from fear to faith, from ego to humility, from brokenness to completeness, and from alienation to connection.

Why This Matters Today

Oshman situates her story in a larger crisis of meaning in the modern world. Despite unprecedented freedom and choice, many people suffer from anxiety and emptiness. As she notes, millions rely on antidepressants to numb the pain of purposelessness. Jewish wisdom, she argues, offers timeless psychological insights for anyone—regardless of religion—seeking resilience, joy, and direction in a fragmented world.

What makes this teaching powerful is its universality: in Jewish mysticism, struggle is built into the fabric of life. We are meant to wrestle with fear, doubt, and imperfection because it is through those cracks that personal growth blooms. As Leonard Cohen once wrote, “there is a crack in everything—that’s how the light gets in.” Oshman’s Jewish version of that truth is that brokenness, or shvira, brings completeness; that self-contraction (tzimtzum) creates space for love and compassion; and that repair (tikkun) transforms the world by changing the self.

What You’ll Learn in This Summary

In the chapters that follow, you’ll explore key principles that guide Oshman’s transformation:

• How discovering the soul—neshama—reconnects you to your true essence beyond fear and trauma.
• Why replacing fear with purpose—through the practice of bittul, or self-nullification—fills the existential void described by Viktor Frankl.
• How crossing your narrow bridge—gesher tzar me’od—teaches you to act courageously even when uncertainty is high.
• How growing your broken heart—shvira—and embracing imperfection leads to emotional healing.
• Why making space for others—tzimtzum—turns relationships, leadership, and love into acts of generosity.
• How repairing your world or organization—tikkun—creates cultures of care and authenticity at home and work.
• What it means to lead like a mensch, embodying justice (tzedakah), kindness, and humility.
• How guiding your children by their unique souls—chinuch—transforms parenting from control to compassion.
• And finally, how the path of return—teshuva—invites continuous renewal and forgiveness, helping you come home to yourself.

Taken together, these ten spiritual principles form a roadmap for living meaningfully in the face of fear. They balance mystical insight with psychological practicality. Oshman invites you to take one step at a time, to cross your own bridges, and above all to ask the question that began her journey: “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

Oshman’s first major breakthrough was realizing that the anxious part of her wasn’t something to erase—it was the flame of her soul yearning to grow. The Jewish concept of the neshama, meaning both “soul” and “breath,” reshaped how she viewed self-worth and inner struggle. Inspired by the Hasidic text Tanya, she learned that the soul, like a candle flame, naturally flickers upward, always striving to connect with its divine source.

The Soul’s Hidden Flame

Through years of therapy focused on blame and childhood trauma, Oshman had come to see herself as damaged. But Judaic psychology taught her something radically different: the soul is never broken. It exists before and beyond life experiences. In Genesis, God created the first man by breathing life—the neshama—into his nostrils. Thus, every soul carries divine breath. You were born with purity, meaning, and potential already inside you. Fear may cover that flame like a shell—what mysticism calls kelipa—but underneath remains divine light.

Getting Past the Shell

The kelipa hides the soul by focusing you on external markers—money, status, success, popularity—that produce anxiety when lost. When you identify your worth with externals, fear grows. But once you focus on your internal flame, fear diminishes. For Oshman, realizing this gave her peace: her restless striving wasn’t insanity, it was her soul’s natural pull upward. She began seeing angst not as a pathology but as evidence of human transcendence.

Asking “Where Are You?”

When Adam hid in shame after sinning, God asked him, “Ayeka—Where are you?” The question wasn’t spatial; it was existential. Similarly, Oshman realized she needed to stop asking “What’s wrong with me?” and start asking “Where am I?” Am I close to or far from my potential? The question shifted focus from blame to self-awareness. Oshman uses this principle in her leadership coaching—inviting clients to assess “Who am I being?” rather than “What have I done?”

Becoming Who You Truly Are

Hasidic teacher Rabbi Zusha of Anipoli captured this perfectly: when he reached heaven, he said, “I will not be asked why I wasn’t Moses—I will be asked why I wasn’t Zusha.” Your task is to be yourself—not someone else’s version of success. Modern psychology echoes this (Carl Jung’s idea of individuation): fulfillment arises from becoming your authentic self. Recognizing your neshama helps guide you there.

In practice, this means taking moments each day to reconnect with your essence—through reflective questions like “What is my flame trying to tell me?” or acts that nurture the inner life instead of the external world. The more you reconnect to your neshama, the more you reduce fear and discover courage, meaning, and joy hidden beneath anxiety.

Viktor Frankl’s insight—that despair equals suffering without meaning—transformed Oshman’s understanding of anxiety. The antidote to fear, she realized, is not the absence of feeling but the presence of purpose. Jewish wisdom echoes this through the concept of bittul, or self-nullification—a process of letting go of ego-driven thoughts to create space for connection with something greater than yourself.

The Existential Vacuum

Oshman noticed that in modern workplaces and personal lives, people feel empty despite external success. Frankl called this the existential vacuum: when instinct and tradition no longer tell us what to do, we drift, mimicking others while feeling hollow. To fill that void, we chase pleasure and recognition. But Jewish teaching flips this idea—emptiness isn’t always absence, sometimes it’s being full of the wrong things.

Empty Yourself to Be Filled

In Hasidut, bittul calls you to empty yourself of selfish focus. Think of it as clearing clutter so that divine purpose can inhabit the space. This doesn’t mean denial of self or worthlessness—it is humility, the recognition that your life is part of something larger. Oshman recalls volunteering as a teenager at a women’s shelter; by focusing on another person’s healing instead of her own anxiety, she felt whole again. This shift—from “What do I need?” to “What am I needed for?”—marked the beginning of her healing.

A Tale of Two Pockets

Rabbi Simcha Bunim taught everyone to carry two pockets: one note reading “The world was created for me,” and another reading “I am but dust and ashes.” Humility and confidence are twin forces. Together, they balance self-worth and service. Oshman literally wrote these notes and still carries them—pulling one out when her ego inflates, and the other when she doubts herself. It’s a practical tool for moderating ego and maintaining perspective.

Finding Strengths and Purpose

In her leadership coaching, Oshman adapts Marcus Buckingham’s idea that strengths are activities that make you feel strong. Discovering what energizes you helps reveal purpose. For her, facilitating growth in others—whether in corporations or families—was energizing. That became her mission: helping people find meaning through self-awareness and service. She calls this the “elephant caller” principle—naming what others avoid so healing and connection can begin. By redirecting your attention outward, your soul feeds on purpose instead of fear.

Oshman suggests asking yourself daily: “What am I needed for?” It’s a question that transforms anxiety into action. The moment you begin serving something larger than yourself, you are no longer trapped in fear—you are guided by purpose.

The world, teaches Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, is a very narrow bridge, and the essential thing is not to be afraid. This simple but profound insight became a turning point for Oshman. She realized that fear can only be overcome by movement—by taking small courageous steps forward even through uncertainty. Jewish wisdom calls this principle gesher tzar me’od, the narrow bridge of life.

From Paralysis to Action

After years of being paralyzed by anxiety—including panic attacks and fear of travel—Oshman found freedom in the act of doing. Rather than waiting for perfect confidence, she followed the Hasidic principle Na’ase v’nishma—‘We will do, and we will understand.’ This reversal of logic teaches that understanding often follows action. When she said yes to life—moving from Israel to London, starting over professionally—she learned that courage comes from doing, not before.

Leap and Build Trust

Crossing narrow bridges is not only about external change but internal trust—in yourself and others. As a corporate coach, Oshman used bridge metaphors to help teams rebuild trust after dysfunction. When a leadership group she coached wrote down obstacles to success, nearly every paper said “trust.” By airing hidden truths, they began repairing connection. Action—the difficult conversation, the apology, the experiment—was the first plank of the bridge.

Failing Harder

At Facebook, Oshman loved the motto “Fail harder,” meaning failure is evidence of effort. It echoes Rebbe Nachman’s teaching: movement through fear is growth. When a CEO she coached wanted to quit due to insecurity, Oshman asked whether she was running away from something or toward something. The woman stayed, faced failure, and found greater success. Crossing bridges toward growth rather than fleeing discomfort is the essence of courage.

Next time you face fear—a decision, relationship, opportunity—ask, “What’s one step forward I can take?” The act of moving forward, however small, is the beginning of fearless living on life’s narrow bridge.

When Oshman was twenty-three, her heart shattered after the man she loved ended their relationship. Years later, she found healing in a Hasidic principle that says, “There is nothing more complete than a broken heart.” The Hebrew word shvira—brokenness—represents the sacred cracks through which wisdom and compassion enter. Instead of trying to fix or erase pain, Jewish mysticism encourages growth within it.

The Beauty of Cracks

Brokenness creates openings for light—the Japanese art of kintsugi makes a similar point, repairing cracks with gold. Oshman discovered that pain, like gold lines, adds beauty and strength. Her breakup became the path to meeting her husband, Yair, and to understanding that suffering carries purpose. She learned to hold joy and sadness together—the Zohar teaches that “Weeping is lodged in one side of the heart, and joy in the other.”

Brokenness and Forgiveness

Jewish tradition venerates brokenness as sacred memory. When Moses shattered the Ten Commandments tablets after seeing Israel’s sins, those broken pieces were not discarded—they were placed beside the new ones in the Ark of the Covenant. For Oshman, this symbolizes wholeness born from imperfection. Likewise, when a groom breaks a glass at a wedding, it acknowledges that even joy contains fragility, reminding couples to grow through hardship.

Turning Pain into Growth

After confronting jealousy and guilt during Yom Kippur, Oshman realized that inner conflict itself could spur growth. Judaism teaches that two inclinations live within us—the yetzer tov (good impulse) and yetzer hara (selfish impulse). The challenge of self-correction is the essence of life. She stopped hiding discomfort and learned that negative feelings are messages from the soul inviting change. Brokenness became a teacher, not a flaw.

When you accept your cracks—with forgiveness, humility, and grace—you discover resilience. The goal isn’t perfection but completeness: to carry both the broken and the whole within you and allow the light of learning to shine through.

One of Oshman’s most transformative lessons was learning to take up less space—to listen more, talk less, and create room for others to flourish. The mystical concept of tzimtzum—God’s self-contraction during creation—became her model for relationships and leadership. Just as God withdrew part of His infinite light to make space for humanity, we can practice contraction to create emotional and intellectual space for others.

The Divine Example

Sixteenth-century mystic Rabbi Isaac Luria described tzimtzum as God restricting His light to form an empty void in which the world could exist. This act wasn’t weakness—it was love. By contracting rather than dominating, God allowed creation to unfold freely. Oshman applies this idea to human interaction: when you step back—relinquish control, judgment, or ego—you give others space to grow.

Making Space in Relationships

Early in her marriage, Oshman tried to impose her parents’ model of marriage on her husband, Yair. Conflict followed until she realized she had left no room for him to shape their relationship. Practicing tzimtzum—making space—instead of insisting on control transformed their bond. She recalls how her mother wordlessly made space for her childhood fears by shifting in bed so young Michal could crawl in—an act of silent compassion and divine contraction.

Leadership Through Contraction

Oshman applies tzimtzum to leadership. A CEO who dominates discussions suffocates innovation; one who listens and steps aside empowers others. She refers to this as “presence through absence”—you don’t have to fill every silence. Often, holding space brings more growth than asserting control. Psychologist Mordechai Rotenberg calls this the therapeutic practice of tzimtzum: the therapist contracts their ego to allow the client’s self-expression.

The paradox of tzimtzum is that by taking up less space, you actually grow more—spiritually and emotionally. In a world that celebrates visibility and dominance, practicing contraction fosters humility and compassion. Making space might just be the most expansive act of all.

The concept of tikkun—repair—teaches that every person has the power to heal themselves and their world. Oshman discovered this first in painful workplace experiences where cultural insensitivity and ego ruled. Later, she realized that repairing company culture starts with repairing the self.

Tikkun in Everyday Life

Her grandmother called her “tikkun”—the repair—after surviving the Holocaust, seeing in her the continuation of life. Oshman reclaims that legacy by teaching that everyone can be a force for repair, whether in family, community, or workplace. Toxic environments contaminate not only morale but the soul itself. Leaving one job filled with gossip and ego, she realized that her soul was suffocating. Repair became a moral imperative: to create workplaces and homes where people can be themselves, without fear or masks.

Cultures of Care

At Facebook, everything changed with one question from her manager: “What do you care about?” Instead of measuring her performance, he measured her values. He later texted “Shabbat Shalom” each Friday, honoring her faith. That act of empathy embodied repair—it said, “You belong.” Building cultures of care means paying attention to how people feel in your presence. Maya Angelou’s line, “People will never forget how you made them feel,” encapsulates the essence of tikkun.

Real Conversations and Failure

Repairing culture requires real conversations. Oshman cites Crucial Conversations by Patterson et al., emphasizing honesty spoken with empathy. When she misgendered a colleague who identified as they/them, the colleague confronted her respectfully—an act of tikkun through truth. Similarly, Facebook’s motto “Fail harder” cultivates repair by removing fear of error. Learning from mistakes, not hiding them, repairs trust.

Tikkun reminds you that everyday compassion—asking “How are you today?” instead of “How are you?”—can rebuild emotional safety. Whether you lead teams or families, you repair the world each time you replace judgment with empathy.

In Hebrew and Yiddish, a mensch means a person of integrity and honor—someone who leads by goodness. Oshman’s reflections on leadership draw from both her military service and Jewish ethics. After realizing that fear-based authority produces only obedience, she learned that compassionate strength creates loyalty and growth. To lead like a mensch is to combine courage with humility.

From Discipline to Empathy

As a young army commander, Oshman prided herself on control until a past recruit told her she was remembered as “the one everyone was afraid of.” The shock prompted transformation—leadership through care rather than fear. She realized that leading through empathy and justice reflects the Jewish value of tzedakah—charity not as optional kindness but as moral duty, the act of making things right.

Humility Over Ego

During Passover, Jews eat unleavened matzah to symbolize humility, while puffed chametz represents ego. Leadership often inflates the self—titles, recognition, authority—but the matzah reminds you to stay simple and grounded. A true leader, like the matzah, creates space for others rather than filling the world with self-importance.

Meaningful Leadership

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson taught that everyone must be a leader. Leadership isn’t about power—it’s about responsibility. Whether guiding a team or family, you lead by inspiring purpose and belonging. Oshman highlights modern models like Jacinda Ardern and Brené Brown, who show that empathy and vulnerability are forms of strength, not weakness. Removing the emotional armor, listening deeply, and acting for justice all exemplify mensch leadership.

Leading like a mensch means living for tzedek—justice. It asks you to be fair, to care for those without voice, and to use your influence for repair. The measure of leadership is not how many follow you, but how many you help rise.

Parenting, for Oshman, became the most profound leadership role. After years of anxiety and perfectionism as a mother, she discovered the Jewish principle of chinuch—education as initiation, not control. Her insight, inspired by King Solomon’s proverb “Teach a child according to his way,” revolutionized how she viewed raising children: not molding them into your image, but guiding them toward their unique purpose.

From Control to Guidance

Early motherhood filled Oshman with fear of failure. Unable to breastfeed, she felt worthless until her father told her, “Your daughter needs a happy mother, not the perfect one.” Discovering British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott’s idea of the “good enough mother,” she learned that imperfection develops resilience. Parental delays and small frustrations teach adaptability. Children don’t need perfect parents—they need space to grow.

Honor Their Individual Path

Solomon’s wisdom inspired Oshman to respect each child’s unique soul. Like adults, children have their own neshama and intrinsic way. Parents should provide boundaries but also tzimtzum—space for discovery. Rather than forcing identical outcomes, guide each child to bloom in their own soil. This makes parenting an act of faith.

Building Family Culture

Oshman advocates creating purposeful home culture—a mikdash me’at, or small sanctuary. Her family’s weekly Shabbat ritual includes a game called “Compliments,” where each member must voice gratitude for another. Over time, this practice shifted their family dynamics from criticism to appreciation. They also do “Vitamin V”—volunteering together—to cultivate compassion and counter entitlement. Together, these rituals transform a household into a place of meaning.

Guiding children by the soul requires humility, patience, and courage. It means seeing them not as extensions of you, but as divine sparks entrusted to your guidance. Your job is not to perfect them, but to nurture their unique light so that one day, they too will illuminate others.

The book culminates in the principle of teshuva, meaning “return.” Often translated as repentance, teshuva in Jewish wisdom is not about guilt—it’s about returning to your authentic self, your original wholeness. For Oshman, teshuva became the journey of transformation itself: a daily act of forgiveness, reflection, and renewal.

The Longer, Shorter Way

A Hasidic parable tells of a man seeking the Temple, who first takes the shortest way but fails, and then succeeds through the “longer, shorter way.” Oshman learned that authentic growth requires patience—the slower, inward path of self-awareness. Quick fixes and spiritual shortcuts collapse; genuine transformation takes time. Every descent into pain prepares ascent. Falling isn’t failure—it’s part of returning.

Forgiveness and Renewal

Teshuva calls for forgiving others and yourself. After years of tension, Oshman invited her mother to be beside her for the birth of her fourth child, symbolizing mutual healing. This act of return—repairing their relationship—marked the rebirth of both women. Teshuva unites broken fragments into a new whole through empathy and confession, much like the daily renewal of the soul described in the morning prayer Modeh Ani.

The Daily Return

Every morning the soul ascends and returns; each awakening is a reminder that life itself is continuous teshuva. You don’t repent only once—you return constantly to the person you were meant to be. In Oshman’s words, “Life is not a problem to solve, but an experience to live.” To return to yourself is to rediscover purpose and courage, and to ask anew each day: “What would I do if I weren’t afraid?”

In embracing teshuva, you realize that fear no longer confines you—it guides you back to your light. Returning home to yourself is the book’s final message: you are already whole; you only need to remember.