Parshat Toldot — The Parsha of Attunement - Seeing Beneath Behavior, Listening Beneath Noise, and Blessing with Understanding

I. Rivkah’s Question — The First Act of Attunement

“וַיִּתְרֹצְצוּ הַבָּנִים בְּקִרְבָּהּ… וַתֵּלֶךְ לִדְרֹשׁ אֶת ה’.”,

“The children struggled within her… and she went to inquire of Hashem.” (Bereishit 25:22)

Parshat Toldot begins with a moment of inner confusion that Rivkah cannot ignore. What she experiences is not ordinary discomfort; it is a kind of turmoil that presses for understanding. Chazal describe the struggle as something that “pursued” her — movement that was not just physical but hinted at the emerging spiritual conflict between her sons. The Torah does not portray her reaction as fear or frustration. It highlights inquiry. Instead of recoiling or assuming the worst, Rivkah turns toward the experience. She slows down and asks what this might mean. She chooses curiosity over panic and reflection over reaction.

The Midrash teaches that she went to the beit midrash of Shem and Ever to seek clarity. Her question — “לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי?” — is usually translated simply as “Why am I like this?” but the Sfas Emes and other Chassidic teachers read it as a deeper spiritual question. Rivkah is not asking why she is suffering; she is asking what story is unfolding inside her. She is asking what this turbulence reveals about the nature of the souls she is carrying. Her question is not self-focused — it is attuned. It reflects a mother listening for the emotional and spiritual reality beneath behavior before that behavior even exists in the world.

Rabbeinu Bechaye notes that Rivkah’s decision to seek rather than explain is part of the Torah’s blueprint for navigating uncertainty. He writes that when a person experiences an inner conflict they do not understand, the first responsibility is “לבקש טעם הדבר”—to seek the meaning of the matter. Rivkah models this exactly. She does not assume the struggle is random or accidental; she assumes it has purpose. This approach forms the spiritual foundation of attunement: the belief that inner turbulence carries information, and that understanding must precede response.

In this moment, Rivkah becomes the Torah’s earliest example of emotional clarity in parenting. She understands that turmoil often signals the beginning of something new and that guidance can only emerge from accurate seeing. She teaches that listening—not to what is loud, but to what is emerging beneath the surface—is the first step of wise leadership.

Toldot will end with a family broken by misunderstanding, but it begins with a mother who refuses to interpret chaos without reflection. Rivkah’s question becomes the seed of the entire parsha’s theme: blessings endure only when they are grounded in deep, honest seeing.

II. Growing Up — When Differences Become Visible and Demand Response

“וַיִּגְדְּלוּ הַנְּעָרִים…”,

“And the boys grew up…” (25:27)

With just three words, the Torah signals a profound shift: the hiding place of childhood ends, and the truth of who the boys are begins to emerge. Rashi notes that when children are young, their differences are often muted; they share rhythms, routines, and environments that make them appear alike. Only with growth — with new pressures, new choices, and the unfolding of personality — does a child’s deeper nature reveal itself. Toldot captures that exact moment, when the soft similarities of early childhood give way to the sharper contours of individuality.

Esav becomes “אִישׁ יֹדֵעַ צַיִד” — a man drawn to action, instinct, physicality, and immediacy. Yaakov becomes “אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים” — someone oriented toward structure, reflection, stillness, and learning. Chazal read these descriptions as portraits of temperament, not judgments: two children born into the same womb and raised in the same home, yet carrying entirely different emotional signatures.

Rabbeinu Bechaye comments that the verse highlights the point at which innate tendencies begin to express themselves. Before this stage, nature is soft and unformed; once children “grow up,” their essential inclinations surface more clearly. The Malbim adds that the Torah is teaching a principle: what is internal will eventually become external. The differences between the brothers were not created by their choices — their choices were shaped by their differences. This is not fatalism, but realism. Nature is a starting point; choice determines what one becomes — but only when the environment responds wisely.

This becomes the parsha’s first major parenting test. The question is not which son is superior or which path leads to greatness. The real question is whether the parents can recognize — and respond to — who their children actually are, not who they hoped they would be. The Torah is teaching that difference is not deficiency. Divergence is not failure. Each child represents a distinct emotional landscape, and each requires a form of guidance aligned with their nature.

For Esav, his passion and intensity need containment and steady warmth — guidance that channels fire without extinguishing it. For Yaakov, his softness and inwardness require clarity, boundaries, and protection — support that strengthens his center without overwhelming his spirit. These are not moral categories; they are spiritual realities. Every child has a path that is theirs alone, and every path requires a style of parenting that matches it.

The deeper question beneath the verse “Vayigdelu ha’ne’arim” is whether the home can hold such difference without fear, comparison, or collapse. Can love widen enough to embrace two opposite temperaments? Can guidance adapt to meet each child where they stand? Toldot frames these questions not as psychology but as Torah. The next generation does not inherit blessing by being the same; it inherits blessing when it is seen, understood, and guided according to its unique inner world.

III. Yitzchak and Rivkah — Two Loves, Two Truths, Yet Still Partial

“וַיֶּאֱהַב יִצְחָק אֶת עֵשָׂו… וְרִבְקָה אֹהֶבֶת אֶת יַעֲקֹב.” (25:28)

At first glance, this verse seems to describe simple favoritism. But the commentators — and the emotional texture of the narrative — reveal something far more nuanced. The Torah is describing two forms of seeing, two kinds of love, each rooted in genuine attunement, each sincere, and each limited in its own way.

Rashi explains that Yitzchak is drawn to Esav “כי ציד בפיו” — because Esav would speak with him, draw close to him, and win his father’s heart with warm, relational gestures. Yitzchak’s love is not blind; it is responsive to Esav’s longing for connection. The Baal HaTanya deepens this, teaching that Yitzchak sensed in Esav a powerful spiritual spark hidden beneath layers of instinct and intensity. He saw the possibility of greatness — not in spite of Esav’s turbulence, but within it. For Yitzchak, Esav was a child whose storm contained potential, someone who needed patient guidance, warmth, and affirmation to draw that spark outward.

Rivkah’s love for Yaakov is equally perceptive, shaped by her own upbringing in a home marked by deceit and moral distortion. The Midrash describes her as someone who learned early how easily goodness can be exploited. She recognizes the vulnerability within Yaakov’s gentleness and the risks inherent in his spiritual purity. Ramban notes that Rivkah understood not only Yaakov’s strengths but his emotional delicacy — the way he could be hurt or destabilized by conflict he was not built to withstand. Her love is protective, not preferential. She is not blind to Esav’s strengths; she is attuned to the fragility within Yaakov’s goodness.

The tragedy of the verse is not that the parents loved differently. The tragedy is that they never shared the vision each one carried. Yitzchak never fully sees the depth of Yaakov’s vulnerability. Rivkah never fully grasps the depth of Esav’s longing. Each holds a piece of truth about their children, but because their insights are never spoken to each other, the family functions with partial information. Attunement fractures when each parent sees only part of the child — when each child receives only half of the understanding they need.

This becomes one of the Torah’s most honest portrayals of family dynamics. Two loving parents, each with genuine insight, each holding something the other needs — and yet a home slowly pulled apart because those truths remain unintegrated. What begins as a difference in perception will eventually become a difference in blessing, and the emotional consequences of that divide will shape the rest of Sefer Bereishit. Toldot teaches that love without shared understanding can unintentionally become the seed of misunderstanding.

IV. Esav’s Exhaustion — The Misattunement That Changes Everything

“וְהוּא עָיֵף.”,

“And he was exhausted.” (25:29)

With one small word — ayef — the Torah opens a window into Esav’s inner world. It does not say he was hungry, impulsive, or reckless. It says he was exhausted. Ramban notes that the Torah’s choice of the word ayef signals a deeper dimension than physical fatigue. It reflects emotional depletion — the kind of tiredness that leaves a person without inner resources to face what is expected of them. Chazal similarly read ayef as a state of spiritual disconnection, a weariness that comes from feeling overwhelmed by one’s internal contradictions.

The Kotzker Rebbe teaches that Esav’s exhaustion was existential. His outward strength masked a deep inner struggle. He felt, at some level, spiritually unworthy — unable to inhabit the expectations placed upon him, unable to bear the weight of a destiny that did not match his nature. His intensity in the field was not only impulsivity; it was escape.

The Or HaChaim goes even further. He writes that Esav did not sell the birthright out of disdain but out of resignation. Holiness felt inaccessible to him. He believed he would never be able to rise to the spiritual responsibilities the birthright represented. When he says, “Behold, I am going to die, so of what use is the birthright to me?” (25:32), he is not speaking of literal death. He is describing the collapse of his inner world — the feeling that the life expected of him is impossible to hold. A child who believes he cannot succeed will eventually stop trying.

Seen through this lens, Esav is not a villain but a misunderstood child. His external impulsiveness hides an internal ache. His mistakes are not rebellion but a quiet cry of despair. His emotional language — fatigue, overwhelm, hopelessness — is misread by the people who love him most. His depleted state is interpreted as apathy rather than pain, as rejection rather than confusion.

The Torah is warning us that when we fail to see a child’s exhaustion, we misinterpret their entire story. A child who feels unseen, misunderstood, or mismatched with expectations will make decisions from distress, not from clarity.

This moment — Esav stumbling in from the field, depleted and unnoticed — becomes the first major rupture in the parsha. The selling of the birthright is not an isolated transgression. It is the symptom of a deeper misattunement. A child whose inner world is not recognized will make choices that confirm the misunderstanding others already have of him.

Esav’s exhaustion marks the beginning of a widening emotional gap in the family — not born from sin, but from a lack of seeing. The tragedy of Toldot begins here, in a missed moment of compassion, in the failure to notice that a child’s behavior often conceals a wounded heart.

V. Preparing the Blessing — The Final Test of Attunement

As Yitzchak prepares to bestow the generational blessing, the Torah includes a tender and easily overlooked detail. He asks Esav to hunt and prepare food he loves, “so that my soul may bless you.” Rashi explains that this request reflects a desire for closeness. Yitzchak wants his heart warmed toward Esav so that the blessing can be given with full emotional presence. This is not indulgence; it is connection. It is a father creating the emotional conditions through which blessing can genuinely flow.

The Zohar sharpens this idea, teaching that Yitzchak’s request is an act of spiritual reaching. He senses that Esav longs to be chosen, to feel seen, to receive affirmation not only through words but through relationship. Before placing his hands upon his son, Yitzchak seeks to place his heart beside him. He understands that guidance without connection cannot take root. The meal is not a test of skill; it is an invitation into closeness.

Ramban adds that Yitzchak believed Esav capable of spiritual greatness if that closeness were nurtured correctly. He saw Esav’s potential, not his danger. He responded to the part of Esav that yearned for validation and warmth, hoping the blessing would draw the hidden spark within him into fuller expression.

Rivkah, however, carries a different kind of knowing—rooted not in emotional intuition but in prophetic clarity. Hashem had already revealed to her that the spiritual trajectory of the family must pass through Yaakov. Rivkah sees with sobering precision that blessing Esav with spiritual leadership would place upon him a burden he was not built to carry. Her attunement is protective. She understands the inner architecture of her sons’ souls and recognizes that gifting Esav a destiny misaligned with his nature might harm both brothers.

The Sfas Emes notes that each parent held a piece of truth. Yitzchak saw Esav’s yearning; Rivkah saw Yaakov’s destiny. Yitzchak saw the good buried in storm; Rivkah saw the fragility hidden in gentleness. Each parent acted from love, each from insight, each from responsibility. Yet their visions stood apart—unshared, unintegrated, unspoken.

This is where the parsha reveals its emotional core. The tragedy is not the deception itself but the absence of attuned collaboration between parents who each held essential knowledge. Two sincere loves, two necessary perceptions, yet never brought into conversation. A blessing offered with full heart but only partial understanding. A plan enacted with full conviction but without shared insight.

Midrash Rabbah describes Yitzchak as intending to give Esav a blessing of worldly strength, not spiritual inheritance. Had this been clarified between them—had Rivkah and Yitzchak articulated what each one saw—the blessing could have unfolded with alignment rather than rupture. Instead, the home fractures not because anyone acted maliciously, but because the deepest wisdom of each parent remained isolated within them.

Toldot teaches that when guidance is offered without shared seeing, even the holiest intentions can lead to painful outcomes. The blessing moment becomes not only a test of character but a test of communication—one that the family, despite its love, does not yet know how to pass.

VI. The Blessing Itself — Why Attunement Matters More Than Accuracy

When Yaakov enters the room disguised as his brother, Yitzchak senses immediately that something is not aligned. He reaches out, touches the coarse goat-skin on Yaakov’s arms, listens again to the hesitant voice before him, and speaks the parsha’s most haunting line:

“הַקֹּל קוֹל יַעֲקֹב וְהַיָּדַיִם יְדֵי עֵשָׂו.”

(27:22), “The voice is the voice of Yaakov, but the hands are the hands of Esav.”

This verse sits at the center of the parsha’s emotional drama. Yitzchak feels the tension between what he hears and what he touches, between the inner truth and the outer signal. Rashi notes that Yitzchak is confused in this moment, experiencing a dissonance he cannot explain. Ramban adds that Yitzchak pauses because his inner intuition alerts him to something amiss, yet the physical evidence in front of him pushes him forward. The Sages describe this as an internal struggle: Yitzchak perceives the mismatch but moves ahead anyway, allowing external cues to override the subtle voice of discernment.

This is not a failure of intellect but a failure of emotional alignment. Blessing, the Torah suggests, requires clarity of relationship. It demands an accurate understanding of the one who stands before you. Yitzchak’s blessing is spiritually correct — Yaakov is, after all, the intended heir — but the process is misaligned. The blessing is given without full seeing, and therefore it cannot yet be whole.

When Esav arrives moments later, the Torah describes not fury but devastation. He cries out:

“הֲבָרָכָה אַחַת הִוא־לָךְ אָבִי?”,

“Do you have only one blessing, my father?” (27:38)

This is not the voice of a villain. It is the voice of a child who feels there has never been a place where he was fully chosen. His tears are not primarily about the lost birthright — that moment passed long before. They reflect a deeper ache: the pain of not being understood, of being loved but not fully known, of feeling that his father had blessing to give him but did not know how to give it.

Midrash Rabbah describes Esav crying “with a great and bitter cry,” a phrase that appears only once more in Tanach — in the book of Esther, when Mordechai responds to the decree threatening his people. The Torah uses that parallel to underscore the depth of Esav’s heartbreak. His cry is not about jealousy or anger; it comes from the wound of emotional invisibility.

In this moment, Toldot becomes devastating not because of deception but because of misperception. The family fractures because the blessing was offered without alignment to the emotional truth of either son. Yaakov receives the spiritual future intended for him, but in a way that compromises his sense of safety and forces him into hiding. Esav receives what he feared most: confirmation of his invisibility. And Yitzchak, who acted from love, witnesses how misunderstanding reshapes his family in ways he did not foresee.

The Torah leaves this moment unresolved because it wants us to absorb its emotional lesson. A blessing given without full seeing may still be holy, but it cannot yet be whole. The words may be correct, but without attunement — without understanding the child, the pain, the longing — the moment cannot carry the peace, clarity, and connection that blessing is meant to create.

VII. The Aftermath — When Misattunement Becomes Exile

The blessing scene ends not with triumph but with rupture. In a matter of verses, the family entrusted with the legacy of Avraham splinters under the weight of misunderstanding. Yaakov flees his home — not as a confident heir, but as a frightened young man running for his life. Rashi comments that he leaves hastily and alone, carrying only what he can bear, a physical expression of the emotional instability surrounding him. Esav burns with betrayal, his grief erupting in words that reveal years of feeling unseen. Rivkah loses both sons in one day, torn between protecting Yaakov and absorbing Esav’s heartbreak. And Yitzchak sits in shaken silence, realizing that the blessing he gave — though consistent with God’s hidden plan — unfolded through confusion rather than clarity.

Ramban notes that this moment becomes the turning point of Yaakov’s life. Instead of inheriting blessing from a place of peace, he receives it within chaos, shaping a journey of struggle that will follow him for decades. Abarbanel writes that the emotional fallout of this scene is the natural consequence of partial truth: each parent saw something real, but they never wove those truths together. The tragedy is not in the deception itself but in the lack of shared understanding that preceded it.

The emotional consequences are devastating. This is the cost of a home where difference was not fully explored, where two parents carried two halves of a truth but never sat long enough with each other to integrate them. It is the cost of a blessing offered without full emotional alignment, without the shared attunement that might have guided each child toward the destiny meant for them. Sforno hints that the turmoil reflects a failure of timing — a blessing given before the family had achieved the clarity necessary to hold it.

Yet even here, at the moment of greatest fracture, the Torah whispers the possibility of renewal. Brokenness becomes the ground in which transformation can take root. Yaakov will go into exile and learn empathy — learning through his own vulnerability what it feels like to live in uncertainty, fear, and dependence on others. His years with Lavan will not simply test him; they will refine him. They will give him patience, humility, and the ability to guide a large and emotionally complex family of his own.

Esav, too, will grow. Midrash Rabbah records that over the years he develops a maturity and resilience that allow him to eventually move beyond anger. His reunion with Yaakov in Parshat Vayishlach — running, embracing, weeping — reveals a level of healing no one could have foreseen in the moment of his great and bitter cry.

Yitzchak, after the shock of being deceived, blesses Yaakov a second time — this time knowingly, openly, and with full clarity. This moment is a quiet act of repair: a father reclaiming the blessing he had intended all along. And Rivkah’s early intuition, the insight she carried from the moment she felt the twins struggling in her womb, will be vindicated through Yaakov’s unfolding story — a path that shapes the twelve tribes and the future of Am Yisrael.

The exile that begins in Toldot is not the end of the story. It is its transformation. The parsha teaches that rupture, when met with humility and growth, can become the beginning of a deeper journey. What breaks here will be mended in ways the characters cannot yet see. What feels like loss will become the opening through which blessing ultimately expands.

VIII. Parenting Reflection — When Seeing Becomes Guidance

Toldot is a parsha about how easily families can lose their way when children are not fully understood. It reminds us that even deep, sincere love does not replace the need for accurate seeing. Rivkah begins the parsha with a model of attunement: she senses inner turmoil, refuses to dismiss it, and seeks guidance. Yitzchak responds to Esav with genuine warmth and a desire to draw him near. Rivkah responds to Yaakov with clarity and protection. Yet despite their devotion, the family struggles because each parent sees only part of their children’s emotional reality.

The Torah is honest about this. Parents can love with great intensity and still misinterpret what their children are experiencing. They can overlook signs of strain, misread behavior, or assume that silence signals stability. Esav’s impulsivity masks exhaustion. Yaakov’s quietness hides fear. Yitzchak’s hope blinds him to risk. Rivkah’s insight blinds her to Esav’s hurt. No one acts with ill intent, yet misunderstandings build over time because the deeper emotional worlds of their children remain partially explored or unspoken.

Rabbeinu Yonah writes that chacham lev—a wise heart—begins with the ability to “see beneath the surface.” The Mei HaShiloach similarly teaches that a parent’s first task is to discern the inner movement of a child’s soul before responding to the outer expression. This is the essence of attunement: creating space to understand what lies beneath a child’s behavior before offering direction or correction. It requires slowing down enough to notice patterns, to ask gentle questions, and to remain open to answers that may be surprising or uncomfortable. Rivkah’s “Lamah zeh anochi?” becomes a guiding posture—not a dramatic cry, but a disciplined practice of inquiry: What is happening inside my child right now? What is this behavior protecting? What might I be missing?

Chassidic teachings emphasize that every child has a unique spiritual composition, a shoresh neshama, and therefore requires a unique form of guidance. The Alter Rebbe describes this as chinuch l’fi darko—educating according to the child’s own path—echoing Shlomo HaMelech’s instruction in Mishlei. One child may need structure and clear boundaries; another may need softness and reassurance. One thrives on challenge; another retreats unless a parent first offers safety and emotional containment. Torah-based chinuch is not built on uniformity but on responsiveness. Equity in parenting is not sameness—it is the commitment to understand what each child needs in order to grow.

In Toldot, the painful outcomes are not caused by deception alone. They emerge from years of partial understanding—moments when instinct, hope, and love guided the parents more than shared clarity. Yet the parsha also teaches that even partial attunement has the power to shape a child’s identity. Esav yearns for Yitzchak’s warmth because he feels it. Yaakov is anchored by Rivkah’s protection because he senses its truth. When a child feels understood, even imperfectly, trust begins to form. When a child feels unseen, the pain runs deep.

From a parenting perspective, Toldot teaches that guidance flows best from understanding. The more accurately we see our children—their strengths, their fears, their temperaments—the more effectively we can support them. When a child senses that a parent is trying to understand rather than judge, fix, or pressure, trust grows. And with trust comes the possibility of influence, connection, and growth.

Attunement is therefore not an emotional luxury. It is a practical foundation. It ensures that love becomes guidance, guidance becomes support, and support becomes continuity. It is the work that transforms blessing from something we give into something our children can truly receive.

IX. Toward Vayeitzei — When Attunement Becomes the Journey Forward

The end of Toldot is painful. The blessing has been given, but the family is fractured. Yaakov leaves his home not as a confident heir but as someone carrying a complicated mixture of blessing, fear, guilt, and uncertainty. Rashi notes that he travels quickly and with minimal belongings, a reflection of the emotional instability around him. Esav remains behind with unresolved hurt. Rivkah loses the daily presence of both her sons in a single day. Yitzchak sits with the realization that the moment he intended as a transmission of legacy became a moment of confusion and separation. This is the emotional cost of a home where everyone cared deeply, yet no one fully understood the others’ inner world.

But Toldot does not close the door on hope. Instead, it prepares the ground for the work that will unfold in Vayeitzei. The stone Yaakov places beneath his head, the ladder he dreams of, and the vow he makes are not isolated spiritual experiences. Ramban explains that they mark the beginning of Yaakov’s inward transformation. Yaakov leaves home having learned, through painful experience, that blessing cannot stand on words alone. It needs clarity, honesty, and an understanding of the emotional landscape beneath relationships. He will need this awareness to build his own family—a family far more complex than he can yet imagine, one that will require patience, humility, and the capacity to see each child with accuracy.

Looking back at Toldot, the parsha reads less like a story of deception and more like a study in attunement. Rivkah’s early question, the boys’ growing divergence, Yitzchak and Rivkah’s partial perspectives, Esav’s exhaustion, Yaakov’s fear, and the family’s final rupture all point to one core truth: relationships break down when people are not fully seen, and they begin to heal when seeing becomes accurate and shared. Midrash Rabbah comments that when Yaakov departs, the “glory of the home departs with him”—a reminder that emotional fracture affects the entire system, not only the individuals at the center of it.

Toldot teaches that blessing cannot take root in an atmosphere shaped by fear, assumption, or attempts to impose sameness. Blessing grows where each person is understood for who they truly are. This is true in families, in education, and especially in parenting. When we respond to our children based on their nature rather than our expectations, we strengthen connection. When we take time to understand what drives their behavior, we build trust. And when we see them with clarity, we guide them with wisdom.

As we move into Vayeitzei, the Torah begins to show how Yaakov’s journey reshapes him into someone capable of deeper attunement. His years with Lavan will test him, soften him, and eventually prepare him for the complex emotional work of raising the twelve tribes. The next parsha describes the slow rebuilding that follows rupture—the work of learning, through experience, how to see others more fully and how to repair from a place of humility.

Toldot leaves us with the reminder that understanding is not only a parenting skill; it is the foundation of continuity and the beginning of healing. The parsha ends in fragmentation, but it points toward the possibility that clearer seeing, deeper listening, and shared attunement can transform even the most painful divides into the first steps of growth.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

Parshat Toldot — The Parsha of Attunement

Love is noticing what lies beneath.