Shira called me from the delivery room. We had been through so much together. She came over almost every other day during her ninth month to receive encouragement, emotional support and a massage. She knew that I couldn’t physically be at the birth with her, but I prayed for her during her labor, and certainly felt like my soul and heart were with her.

I was honored when she called me within minutes of giving birth to tell me the news. Mazel tov, she had a baby boy! She proceeded to tell me her entire birth experience. We hung up. A few hours later, she called me again and retold me the entire story. Again the phone rang a little while later. Shira talked and talked. She called me about seven times over the next few days, retelling me the story, reliving the experience. I wasn’t physically at the birth, but by the third day of listening to her, I knew the story so well that I could have been.

I relived it: the experience of it, the pain of it, the miracle of itI admit that after each one of my births I did the same thing as Shira. I talked about it. Over and over, I replayed the birth to all my close family and friends. I relived it: the experience of it, the pain of it, the miracle of it, the feeling of desperation of it as one calls out to G‑d, turning to Him, instinctively knowing that He is the only one who can get you through it, and the beauty of it as at last your baby makes its way into our world.

Shira and I are not alone. I hear it all the time. Women talk about birth. They talk about it, and they relive it each and every time they tell the story. Why? Because they didn’t just give birth to a new life; they gave birth to themselves. They also didn’t do it alone. They couldn’t. Each and every woman realizes this as she approaches transition and tries to push the baby out. There is no angel with her, no messenger, no one to turn to, just G‑d. This is certainly something to talk about!

Passover. The Seder night. What are we doing on this special night? Yeah, I know what you are going to say. We do a lot of eating, but really, what are we doing the entire night? We are talking. Rambam writes that it is a positive commandment of the Torah to relate on Passover night (the 15th of Nissan) the miracles and wonders that were done for our fathers in Egypt. We have an obligation to tell our children. If we don’t have children, we tell our spouses; if we don’t have a spouse, we ask the people sitting around the table. And even if you are alone, you still have an obligation to ask yourself and to talk about it.

The main purpose of the Seder night is to tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt. On this night we are supposed to ask questions, recount the story, and talk and talk. The entire night is set up to provoke questions. We eat bitter herbs. We recline. We drink four cups of wine, and eat matzah, unleavened bread. The children sing. “Why is this night different than all other nights?”

We finish the evening, like a new mother with her baby in her armsPesach (Passover), if you break up the word—peh and sach—you get mouth (peh) and discussion/talking (sach). Why are we talking and talking? Why, every year, do we retell the story? Because we gave birth! It didn’t just happen to our ancestors thousands of years ago. It happened to us, and we have to talk about it. “You shall tell your son on this day, saying, ‘Because of this G‑d acted on my behalf when I left Egypt.”

We have to relive it, experience it: the pain of it, the miracle of it, the way we hit rock bottom and realized that we had no one to turn to except for G‑d. We relive how He and He alone, not an angel and not a messenger, took us out of our slavery, our misery, and helped us give birth to ourselves, as a free nation and as individuals. And how does the Seder night end? We finish the evening, like a new mother with her baby in her arms, singing praise and giving thanks to G‑d.

Every year on the Seder night, we relive our birth experience. We are new. We are free. We are reborn. This certainly is something to talk about!