It was barely audible, a faint sound that would have gone unnoticed had I been in a deeper sleep. But I was awake, and I heard it—a light beep every 10 minutes.

I tried to brush it off, telling myself that it wasn’t a big deal. I attempted to relax and drift back to sleep, but instead, my breathing quickened with anger.

“I can’t believe my husband,” I muttered. “He said he turned off all his devices, but he didn’t.”

We were enjoying a delightful vacation with friends in Morocco. Holidays can be challenging, spending every waking moment together.

I woke my husband and asked him to completely shut down all his gadgets. He stumbled out of bed and checked them, realizing that his laptop was still on. He powered it off and was back asleep within minutes.

I, however, remained wide awake, struggling to find my calm space. But it evaded me. I was consumed by anger and frustration. It was the second night of beeps and dings, and I couldn’t believe that he had forgotten to switch them off again.

My anger intensified, boiling like a kettle. In just two minutes, my fury reached its peak.

I recalled the story of a man who brought his son to speak with the Tzemach Tzedek, the third Chabad Rebbe. His son, who was on a negative path in life, was passionate about horses. The Rebbe told him that horses gallop so fast they can cross large distances and get to places at lightning speed. But they can also come back really quickly. He encouraged him that although he might have strayed far away from Torah values, he could still return just as quickly.

I saw myself in that man. My temper flared up swiftly, but thankfully it subsided just as fast.

There I lay, consumed with anger and desperation. I longed for sleep, but my mind wouldn’t rest. I knew I needed to tap into the tools I had acquired.

“Sori,” I whispered to myself, “you are forgiving. He didn’t mean to do it. Forgive him.”

I repeated the mantra, “I am forgiving, I am forgiving,” hoping to open the gates of forgiveness. Unfortunately, they remained closed.

A bit calmer and more rational, I shifted my focus to another door—the door of friendship. While “Love your neighbor as yourself” is often seen as an elevated concept, I recognized that it surely applied to loving my husband.

“He is my best friend, and I am a friendly woman,” I chanted. The doors of friendship creaked slightly. I got some movement, some traction, but the doors would not open.

Determined not to give up, I knocked on another door—the door of fun and humor. I reminded myself of the absurdity of stressing over sleep and my husband’s gadgets while on a holiday in Morocco.

“Do I have to run a marathon tomorrow?” I asked myself. The answer was a resounding no.

“One thing’s for sure,” I thought. “I will have a funny story to share with my friends tomorrow. And I do love telling a good story!”

“I am funny! This is so funny!” I repeated it enough times to myself, struggling to contain my laughter.

In an instant, my anger dissipated. Poof. It was gone. Grateful, I fell back asleep.

The next morning, as we made our way to Fez, I shared my story with our friends. I’m not sure who loved it more—them or me.

Conquering one’s negative impulses is not easy. Sometimes, you must try a few mantras until you get to the right one but don’t give up. When G‑d sees you trying, then He will help you.

As our sages say, “Open a door as tiny as the eye of a needle, and I will open your gates wide enough to let carts and horse-drawn carriages drive through.”1