No Seder for Passover? A Story of Combatting Internalized Ableism During Passover Prep

I stood in front of my kitchen counter, my mind swirling with memories. I had stood in this very spot last year. The year when I had decided to steam every countertop, wash every plate, and cover every surface that I could think of. The year I had kashered the stove and oven. The year I had prepared a full Seder for my brother and me. That was the first year we had done Passover in our own home, under our own roof. The first time, we were celebrating our own Exodus from a good number of toxic relationships and a troubled past. It was bittersweet, but it was ours.

Staring down at these countertops again, reflecting on the past 12 months, it dawned on me just how much had happened in the span of one year. Just how much had changed. And yet again, it’s bittersweet. 

That’s because this Passover, I’m not having a Seder and I’m not kashering my entire kitchen.

I can feel the gasps from some of my readers as I’m writing this. I know it's unexpected. 

I’m openly frum-ish, and I pride myself on being as halachically observant as I can. But life had other plans. Since last year, I have been diagnosed with dysautonomia and a slew of other diagnoses. Since last year, I started having to use mobility aids to get around. Since last year, I have been struggling with my mental and physical health and energy, and it’s been a lot. Too much, sometimes, if I’m being honest. I’ve had to, at 23, grieve the loss of my body and my life as I once knew it. So, a “normal” Passover this year was becoming more and more of a fantasy every day I’d wake up with fog, pain in so many places, dizziness, and aching joints. Standing in the kitchen, recovering from a flare-up, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do what I did last year. 

But this random moment at the kitchen counter made me realize something. Last year, I chose survival and didn’t know how to prioritize myself. This year, I chose my peace and prioritizing my health and wellness. Last year, I did too much with too little energy and burnt out. This year, I recognized my limitations. Even if that meant missing out on the Passover traditions I held dear. I felt happy and proud of myself for making that decision. 

Then guilt flooded me in that moment. I remembered all I went through to get to where I am today, all the people I left behind, all the pivotal decisions and life moments made during Passover season over the years, all of the legacy entangled in that moment. Was I spitting in the face of my ancestors and just choosing convenience over a bit of back-breaking labor? After all, what’s Passover without the Seder and festivities? Was I getting too comfortable in my Jewishness to the point where Passover had lost meaning?

But then I remembered Pekuach Nefesh. I remembered that if I do a mitzvah to the detriment of my health and quality of life, it cancels out. Did I have it in me to kasher my entire kitchen, search my floor for crumbs, cook a full Seder dinner, and cover surfaces? Perhaps. Would it make my health relapse, put me in bed for a week, and possibly cause another flare? Definitely. Plus, going over to someone’s house for the Seder, while already overstimulated and trying to ask for allergen info and navigate a lack of safe foods, was too much to even consider. And I definitely didn’t have the energy to have people over. No matter how you sliced it, it wouldn’t have been right for me to make that gamble.

After all, Passover is about our people’s journey to find themselves and God after generations of oppression and trauma. Something I’m all too familiar with. It’s about knowing one’s limitations and relying on God to pull us through in our times of need. It’s about finding spaces (the Promised Land) where we can be ourselves, have our own identities, and meet our own needs. Passover wasn’t just about liberation; it was about the sacrifices (literally and figuratively) it takes to build a freer world for all of us. And that starts with saying “no” and recognizing when something is too much. Especially for disabled Jews.

Why celebrate our escape from slavery just to enslave ourselves in modernity to a productivity mindset that values exhaustion as a sign of resilience and effort? For people like me, our resilience is reflected in choosing to work with a body that doesn’t always cooperate and still finding joy in the process. 

So I made my decision, sat with my feelings for a bit, and hopped onto Threads to make a post about it. 

“As a note to all my disabled Jewish fam, it’s okay if you can’t make it to or prep a Seder. It’s okay if you can’t eat Matzo the whole week. It’s okay if all you can do to prep your house is throw out or freeze leavened items, and skip the blow torch to the countertops. It doesn’t make you any less Jewish. Remember Pekuach Nefesh. You are loved for doing your best…”

Over 400 people liked the post in less than 24 hours. As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one struggling with this idea of balancing tradition with self-compassion. 

As I was reading the comments coming through in droves for hours on end, it dawned on me that my decision had just encouraged over 400 other Jews to choose their health without guilt this Passover. That’s true Passover spirit. That’s an Exodus. An Exodus from productivity culture and internalized ableism. Liberation then comes in recognizing our bodies are sacred, and loving our bodies is one way we show love to God. 

So, no, I won’t be having a Passover Seder this year. Not in a traditional sense. I will, however, be attending services as I can, eating matzo and unleavened breads all week, setting aside April 1st-2nd to focus on having a spiritual Seder of reflection, messaging friends, writing, and consecrating myself from work and work-like activities. I am choosing to turn down a media opportunity because I would have been required to film on April 2nd before sundown. I am choosing to watch every Moses movie I can get my hands on. I am choosing to make Passover my own. And that’s just as Jewish, just as special, and just as resilient as any other Passover tradition. 

Chag Pesach Sameach!