It turns out this very human experience is deeply rooted in Jewish tradition.
We find this idea beautifully explored in Shemot Rabbah, specifically in its interpretation of the verse, "The Lord said to Moses and Aaron: This is the statute of the paschal offering; no foreigner shall eat of it" (Exodus 12:43). It seems at first glance to be a straightforward rule, but the Rabbis delve deeper, connecting it to the verse, "The heart knows the bitterness of its soul; and in its joy no stranger can meddle" (Proverbs 14:10). Why this connection?
The explanation offered is that just as the heart is the first to experience sorrow, so too is it the first to experience joy. Think about it: When something wonderful happens, where do you feel it first? Often, it’s a warmth, a lightness in your chest. Our hearts, according to this understanding, are the gatekeepers of our most profound emotions. David himself expresses this in Psalms 38:11, saying, “My heart flutters, my strength fails me." And again, in Psalms 16:9: "Therefore, my heart is glad and my glory rejoices."
And it’s not just about feeling. The Midrash suggests that in the future, when redemption comes, God will focus first on consoling the heart. As it says in Hosea 2:16, “I will speak to her heart.”
But Shemot Rabbah doesn’t stop there. It illustrates this concept through several poignant stories. One is the story of Hannah, from the Book of Samuel. Hannah, barren and heartbroken, suffered deeply ("She was bitter of soul," I Samuel 1:10). When God finally remembered her, she rejoiced alone. "My heart exults in the Lord…because I rejoice in Your salvation” (I Samuel 2:1), she proclaims. Her joy, born from such personal pain, was hers alone.
Then there's the story of the Shunamite woman. Remember her? Her son dies, and she seeks out the prophet Elisha. When Elisha's servant, Gehazi (גֵּיחֲזִי), tries to push her away, Elisha stops him, recognizing the deep sorrow in her soul ("Release her, for her soul is bitter within her…", II Kings 4:27). The Rabbis see in her pain a reflection of this very idea: "The heart knows the bitterness of its soul."
Even King David's life provides an example. When David went to Akhish (אֲכִישׁ), the Philistine king of Gath, seeking refuge, disaster struck. The Amalekites raided his camp, taking his wives and children captive and burning the city of Tziklag (צִקְלָג). The people were so distraught they spoke of stoning David (I Samuel 30:6). Yet, after rescuing his family and returning the Ark, David rejoiced "with great joy" (I Chronicles 29:9). His heart, having known such despair, now overflowed with a joy uniquely his own.
Finally, we return to the original verse about the Passover offering. The Israelites, having endured slavery in Egypt, were about to experience liberation. God commanded them to perform the paschal (פֶּסַח) offering, the Passover sacrifice. But God forbade the Egyptians, the very people who had oppressed them, from partaking in it. Why? Because "the heart knows the bitterness of its soul; and in its joy no stranger can meddle." Their joy at being freed from slavery was a deeply personal, hard-earned joy.
So, what does all this mean for us today? Perhaps it’s a reminder to honor the sanctity of our own emotions, both the bitter and the sweet. To recognize that some experiences are so deeply personal that they are meant to be felt, and perhaps even guarded, within the confines of our own hearts. And maybe, just maybe, it’s an invitation to be more mindful of the emotional landscapes of others, to recognize that behind every face lies a story of joys and sorrows that we can only begin to imagine.