I climbed the stairs to my home, exhausted after a session with a group of young adults on a Birthright Israel trip. Satisfaction filled my chest; I was ready to put on my fuzzy slippers and chill out.

As I opened the door, my eyes zoomed in on my husband’s coat and shoes, remaining in the same spot as when I left that morning. The thought weighed on me like a ton of bricks. “It’s happening again.” “How long would this depression last?” The never-ending days of anxiety made leaving the house too hard.

I sat on the couch, my body filled with defeat. I thought about the Rebbe’s call of action—ker ah velt—to “turn the world over” with holiness by spreading the teaching of Chassidus to the farthest recesses of the earth. I felt that I was fulfilling my part of the mission through speaking for groups. Under the thunderous clouds of depression, how was Ariel going to do his part?

I sat by my Shabbat candles that Friday night and whispered, “G‑d, heal Ariel so he can fulfill his mission in this world.” My candles were raging back and forth with each flicker, mirroring my inner distress.

I thought his anxiety and battle with depression hindered his Divine service.

I climbed the stairs flying high from a fun day of tour groups. I stared at the door. My heart sank. I was afraid to open it; I wondered if Ariel had been home all day.

I slowly opened the door and peeked my head in, and tears filled my eyes. Ariel wrapped his tefillin and hummed a soul stirring Chabad melody, the beinoni niggun.

The sun was setting; it was the very last moments of the day that one can fulfill the mitzvah of tefillin. He recited the blessing, and his tone said it all.

He had wrestled with his thoughts, his fears, his shaking body. And with shaking hands, he managed to fulfill this G‑dly command at the last moment. As his world was crashing down, he wrapped himself in G‑d’s endless light in secure leather bounds.

I wondered to myself. “What is holiness?” “What does it mean to serve G‑d?”

This was holy and wasn’t something I could put on a stage. It wasn’t loud and proud. It wasn’t something I could express to my groups in words.

There is G‑dly revelation, the “fireworks” of spiritual light. And then there is the essence, G‑d Himself. The essence is quiet and still. It just is. Zero fanfare necessary.

I was privileged to witness an essence-to-essence moment between a Jew and his Creator.

It clicked. Ariel was “fighting the wars of G‑d,” the inner wars. He was a warrior in the heat of battle, and G‑d was there with him.

My Shabbat candle flames were quietly dancing “Thank You, G‑d for allowing Ariel to serve You in a deep, intimate, real and raw way.”

I no longer pitied Ariel’s battle. It wasn’t an easy one. It wasn’t the path most souls would choose. There are no fireworks, no awards given out for calming your anxiety. It isn’t the kind of thing you can flash on a resume.

It’s not like when someone asks you that dreaded question: “So, what are you up to?” (aka, “how do you justify your existence?”) You can answer: “Well, yesterday I calmed my anxiety enough to wrap tefillin a moment before sunset.”

It is a thankless job.

And yet, it is the essence of what the Rebbe was asking us to do. “Turn the world over”—bring G‑d’s light into the deepest depths. Ariel was making the darkest recesses of his psyche and the most painful sensations in his body a home for G‑d, by doing the inner work it took.

The inner world can be written and spoken about, but its true glory—its essence—remains between a person and G‑d. Only G‑d knows how precious those moments of one’s inner work are.

My construct of holiness had radically shifted, and I started to wonder if my view of success and wealth also needed an update.

Is wealth measured by the number of people who follow me on Instagram? Is it the number of hearts on a post? Is it the money in my savings account? Is it shown in the clothing I wear?

My husband humbly introduced me to a world of spiritual wealth, inner wealth, something that a price tag would only cheapen.

The wealth of knowing how to calm down a panic attack.

The success of not turning harsh and critical thoughts into a lifestyle.

The richness of knowing how to work through a trigger instead of living from it.

The glory of not blaming the world for my pain, but rather, taking ownership of it and making it my spiritual work.

The holiness of turning darkness into light.