What Isaac's Wells Teach About Envy and Self-Worth

No one has said a bad word about you, and yet you feel inferior. Yossi Abdo, an emotional therapist and graphologist who writes for Kikar HaShabbat, says he encounters that feeling among clients almost every week. In a column on this week's Torah portion, Toldot, he turns to Isaac, Jacob and Esau, and the wells Isaac dug, to explain where envy comes from and how to let go of it.

Abdo begins with the question of why Isaac loved Esau. Rashi explains that Esau knew how to present himself to his father as someone meticulous in observing the commandments, describing him as able "to trap and deceive his father with his mouth." Esau would ask Isaac how one tithes salt and straw, "so that his father would think he was meticulous in the commandments" (Rashi on Genesis 25:27).

That does not capture the full complexity of Isaac's relationship with his sons, Abdo writes, but it holds a lesson for us: we see others through what they choose to show, and we do not always know what lies beneath the first impression. Of Jacob, Rashi uses one weighty word, "tam," explaining, "as his heart, so is his mouth; one who is not sharp at deceiving is called tam." The Torah, Abdo notes, draws a clear line between the ways of Jacob and Esau, between outward impression and what is hidden underneath.

What happens when we measure ourselves against someone who seems bigger than us? In 1954, psychologist Leon Festinger introduced social comparison theory, which holds that people have a drive to evaluate themselves, and when no objective measure is available, they do so against others. Later research added an important point. Upward comparison, with people who seem more successful than we are, can inspire but can also wound. The pain begins, Abdo writes, when comparison stops being information and becomes a verdict on our worth.

"And sometimes it is precisely those closest to us who hurt more," he writes. "The success of a distant person is just a piece of news, while the success of a peer, a brother or a friend from yeshiva is close enough that we feel it is permitted to compare."

The Sages recognized that envy can also drive growth. "The envy of scholars increases wisdom," they taught (Bava Batra 21a). The same emotion can push a person to learn and advance, or convince him that his friend's success diminishes him. Abdo says one of the hardest things to see in his clinic is how many good people wear themselves down with measuring that never ends.

Isaac didn't give up the water. He gave up the quarrel.

He describes Nathan, aged 36, who owns a small printing and signage business and keeps a regular evening study session at a kollel, a yeshiva for married men. Nathan came to the clinic because the joy he took in what he had built was fading. On one side is his brother-in-law, a contractor whose business has flourished. On the other is his younger brother, an avrech, a full-time Torah scholar, whose reputation precedes him. One Shabbat, Nathan recounted, his brother-in-law was talking about a new deal, and midway through Nathan realized he was no longer listening. The thought frightened him. "Everything I do looks small next to him," he said.

Before moving to solutions, Abdo says they stayed with the pain itself and separated three things. Comparison is a process of evaluation. Envy is the emotion that arises from it. And the sense of inferiority can deepen when a person interprets the gap as a verdict on his worth. For Nathan, "he's more successful" had turned into "I'm less successful," and from there it was a short way to "I'm worth less." When a person feels others receive more appreciation, Abdo adds, he may fear that his place among those close to him is shrinking too, and so comparison takes on a heavier question, one of belonging.

Part of the trap, he argues, is that we compare our own behind-the-scenes with the other person's shop window. We know our own fatigue, doubts and calculations from the inside, while in the other person we mostly see the finished result. We are comparing two pictures that were never equal to begin with.

If the story of Jacob and Esau teaches that not every outward impression tells the truth, Abdo writes, the story of the wells shows what happens when comparison turns into envy and conflict. The portion does not hide it. Of Isaac, who was blessed and grew wealthy, the Torah says explicitly, "and the Philistines envied him" (Genesis 26:14). The Torah does not cite any harmful act by Isaac as the cause. Sometimes, Abdo observes, another person's success alone is enough to make us feel left behind.

Then come the wells. Isaac digs, the herdsmen of Gerar quarrel over the water, and he names the well Esek, meaning contention. He digs a second, they quarrel again, and he calls it Sitnah, meaning enmity. With the third, something changes: "And he moved from there and dug another well, and they did not quarrel over it, and he called its name Rehovot, and he said, for now the Lord has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land" (Genesis 26:22).

Abdo draws attention to the words "and he moved from there." Isaac did not give up the water; he gave up the quarrel. Nathan, too, could stay with the life he built and release the constant struggle to prove it is equal to his brother-in-law's. Sometimes, Abdo writes, a person invests all his strength in proving he is as successful as his brother-in-law or as learned as his brother, until he forgets what he actually wanted for himself.

Ramban finds an even deeper meaning in the wells. The three are not merely three attempts to find water but an allusion to the history of the Jewish people and the Temples: "A well of living water alludes to the House of God that the children of Isaac will build." Esek alludes to the First Temple, Sitnah to the Second, "and the third he called Rehovot, which is the future House that will be built speedily in our days."

Ramban writes this as allusion, about Jewish history and the Temples, Abdo acknowledges. Still, the movement from Esek and Sitnah to Rehovot raises a personal question: how many of our struggles are meant to achieve something that matters to us, and how many were born only from the need to prove we are no less than others?

"He's more successful" became "I'm less successful," and from there it was a short way to "I'm worth less"

A similar idea lies at the heart of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, or ACT, of which Steven Hayes was one of the main developers. The approach does not ask us to ignore envy or drive it away by force. It teaches that not every thought that arises is a truth we must obey. When the thought "I'm worth less than him" appears, Abdo explains, one can recognize it as a thought, give it room, and still choose an action that expresses what one values, redirecting energy from proving you are better toward what truly matters to you.

"When a person measures himself only by what stands out in others, there will always be someone who has surpassed him," Abdo writes. "But when he asks what kind of father, what kind of husband and what kind of Jew he wants to be, he begins to measure himself by actions within his control."

Nathan chose one small step on his own. For two weeks, every evening, he wrote down one thing he had done or built that day, without comparing. At first it was hard, as every success of his immediately reminded him of his brother-in-law or his brother. Gradually, though, when envy surfaced, he learned to recognize it before it became a conclusion about himself.

Abdo offers five ways out of the trap. The first is to dig your own well: write down what truly matters to you, what you have already built in that direction, and one small step you can take this week, then measure your progress on your chosen path rather than the distance between you and someone else. The second is to ask whose yardstick you are using. Whenever you find yourself falling short, check which ruler you are being measured by and who decided it is right for you. You may discover you have adopted a standard that does not reflect what matters to you.

The third is to stop before comparison takes over. When a brother-in-law talks about a success and you feel yourself tighten, pause, identify the thought "he's succeeding and I'm less," and remember it is a passing thought, not a verdict on your worth. Then choose a small action, such as listening or joining the conversation without trying to prove anything. The fourth is to turn upward comparison into learning. Instead of asking what it says about you, ask what the other person does that you could learn from, without also taking on the role of judge. This echoes "the envy of scholars increases wisdom," Abdo writes, as envy becomes a motivator rather than a source of pain once the other person no longer serves as the judge of your worth. The fifth is to praise without erasing yourself: say a good word to the person close to you about his success, and in that same moment remind yourself that his success is not your loss.

Envy may still arise, Abdo concludes, and we will not always manage to make it disappear. The real question is what we do when it comes. Isaac kept digging wells and stopped insisting on the places where the quarrel had flared. "We cannot always choose who will succeed beside us," he writes, "but we can choose whether to keep fighting over his well, or start digging our own."

Abdo holds a degree in psychology and a degree in special education. He is an NLP emotional therapist, a personal development coach and lecturer, and a certified graphologist who, among other roles, served as a graphologist in the IDF. His work combines psychology with Jewish sources.