Of course we are stressed. The tools of wellness are in everyday Judaism.

Lately, I’ve realised that many of the things that help me stay calm and grounded come from Judaism. Not the big, dramatic parts, just the quiet, repetitive rituals I’ve done for years without thinking too hard about them. In my 30s, with my job, kids and many demands, of late I notice that these rituals have become the scaffolding of my days.

One of the buzzwords in wellness culture is gratitude. You’re encouraged to write affirmations about your body, your breath, the good things in your life. In Orthodox Judaism, gratitude is present from the minute you wake in the morning. The first thing I say every morning is Modeh Ani, a short prayer thanking G-d for returning my soul to my body.

It’s simple, but it shifts my focus. Before I’ve even looked at my phone, before the morning chaos begins, I’m reminded that life isn’t a given. That I woke up is already something to be thankful for.

Meditation is another wellness practice that’s constantly recommended, where you take the time to reflect, breathe, pause. And while I’ve never been great at sitting on a cushion in silence, daily Jewish prayer, tefillah, offers a similar experience. It creates space to think, to reconnect with something larger than myself. It’s structured and repetitive, which helps on the days when everything else feels overwhelming. There’s comfort in having a set rhythm to follow.

Then there’s Shabbat. In a world where digital detoxes are trending, Orthodox Jews have been doing this for centuries. For 25 hours, from Friday evening to Saturday night, we unplug, no phones, no laptops, no scrolling. And yes, sometimes it’s hard. Especially in the past year, when major events in Israel often seemed to unfold right as Shabbat or as a Chag (holiday) began. There were times I didn’t want to switch off. But once I did, I noticed the difference.

For me, on Shabbat, I’m more present. I read actual books. I play board games with my kids. My children pull out toys they’ve ignored all week. The screens go quiet, and our house feels different, calmer, slower, more connected.

There’s a structure to it that I’ve come to crave. It’s not glamorous. It’s not always easy. But stepping away from the noise of the world each week has become one of the most valuable parts of my mental health toolkit.

We live in a time when loneliness is a public health crisis. People are craving community and connection but often don’t know where to find it. In Orthodox Jewish life, community, a kehillah, is central. We celebrate together, mourn together, show up for one another. When I had each of my babies, friends from shul organised meal trains, dropped off food, and helped me by popping over and entertaining my older kids.

Being part of a strong community reflects what so much of modern wellness advice is saying: if you want to feel grounded, find people who will show up for you and show up for them in return.

For me, even the mundane parts of Jewish life have a surprising impact. Washing hands before eating bread, lighting candles on Friday night, pausing to say a blessing before I eat… these are small, physical acts. But they elevate the everyday. They help me notice what I’d otherwise rush through.

In fact, I’ve started to notice that these small rituals are sometimes the only parts of my day when I’m not reacting to something or scrolling through the craziness of the news. They’re moments that exist outside of productivity. I don’t do them to get anything done, I do them because they’re part of the rhythm of Jewish life. And somehow, that makes them even more powerful.

There’s also a strong focus in Judaism on altruism and acts of kindness. We’re taught from a young age that doing good for others isn’t just virtuous, it’s essential. There’s even a children’s song that says, “For 70 or 80 years a neshama [soul] wears and tears just to do a favour for another.”

These acts of kindness, gemilut chassadim, aren’t only about helping others; they’re about shaping ourselves, too. When I cook a meal for a new mum or visit someone who’s sick, it’s not just an obligation. It’s a reminder that my actions matter. That I’m part of something bigger than just my own worries.

One area that perhaps gets less attention, but has deeply shaped me, is the Jewish connection to nature. There are blessings for thunder, for lightning, for rainbows. Our prayers change with the seasons. In Shemonah Esrei, one of our holiest daily prayers, we shift our language based on the time of year, acknowledging the wind, the rain, the needs of the land.

Judaism doesn’t let us forget the natural world. And that’s a gift, especially now, when so much of our lives are lived indoors and online. One of the most effective mental health tips out there is to spend time in nature. Judaism, quietly and consistently, nudges us to do just that.

To be clear, this is not a pitch to become religious. I don’t think Orthodox Judaism has a monopoly on these ideas. You can find mindfulness, gratitude, and community in lots of different places and traditions. But I do think the built-in structure of Orthodox life offers a helpful framework, especially if you’re someone who thrives with routine.

If you’re not Orthodox, or not religious at all, there are still ways to tap into these benefits. You could try marking the start of Shabbat with a moment of pause, turning off your phone for a set time, or simply sitting down to a meal without distraction.

You can take a minute each morning to acknowledge that you’ve woken up and that life is, in and of itself, a gift. These don’t have to be rigid or overwhelming. They’re small moments that can anchor your day, no matter where you are on the religious spectrum.

As Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) says, “There is nothing new under the sun.” Wellness may be marketed in shiny, modern packaging today, but so many of its core ideas have been here all along, woven into the rhythms and routines of Jewish life. Gratitude. Presence. Rest. Community. Purpose. Wisdom. These aren’t trends. They’re ancient tools, still useful, still grounding, still quietly holding so many of us together.