Private shiva? Whoever heard of such a thing? Isn’t that almost an oxymoron? Shiva, by its very definition, is public. The mourners open their homes, welcoming visitors who allow others to step into their grief and share the burden with them. That is the ritual we all know.
Recently, a situation in our community gave rise to this very question. A family requested a private shiva as a way of observing their mourning in a more personal setting. What prompted me to reflect was not the request itself, but some of the reactions it generated. A few expressed feeling disappointed at not being able to fulfill the mitzvah of nichum aveilim. Others wondered aloud why a family would choose to do this. Those responses revealed a genuine confusion about the nature of comfort and provided an opportunity to explore a perspective that, while familiar to some, might be less intuitive to others.
And yet, for some, the very fact that such a request could be made felt confusing, even objectionable. After all, isn’t there a mitzvah of nichum aveilim? Aren’t we commanded to visit and to comfort? Some even felt denied an opportunity, as if they were robbed of a mitzvah. Others, despite hearing the request, couldn’t resist the urge to reach out, to ask why, to insist on being present anyway. In several cases, these reactions were not shared privately or in passing conversation, but were directed to the mourners themselves, people in the midst of their own grief, now faced with the additional burden of justifying their choices. But this reaction misses something fundamental about what comfort actually means.
Nichum aveilim is indeed a mitzvah, but it is not like eating matzah or shaking a lulav, where the mitzvah is fulfilled through contact with an object. Matzah and lulav are objects; they have no will, no preferences, no capacity to refuse our interaction with them. Nichum aveilim centers on a person, a subject with feelings, needs, and agency. A person who can say yes or no, who has inner experiences we cannot access, who may need something entirely different from what we assume.
Our rabbis teach us that even in the traditional setting of shiva, the mourner leads. The halacha directs us not to begin speaking until the mourner speaks first. Even when we are sitting in the same room, the mitzvah unfolds on their terms, not ours. When we treat a mourner like an object for our mitzvah fulfillment, something we act upon to discharge our obligation, we have fundamentally misunderstood the nature of comfort itself.
When the Torah describes our duty to give assistance, it doesn’t simply command us to “give.” It teaches dei machsoro asher yechsar lo (Devarim 15:8) – meaning provide whatever is sufficient to meet that need, nothing more and nothing less. Our rabbis explain that this could mean food, clothing, or shelter. It might also mean restoring dignity or purpose, even through something that others might view as a luxury. The Torah’s concern is not with what appears objectively necessary but with what this specific person truly needs. The focus is on the subject, not the giver, and the sensitivity to what he or she may require to begin healing.
Nichum aveilim operates by the same logic. Sometimes a mourner needs the warmth of community surrounding them. Sometimes they need people to simply sit in silence. And sometimes, perhaps more often than we realize, what they need most desperately is space to grieve without performance, without explanation, without the exhausting weight of hosting others’ good intentions. To honor that request is not to abandon the mitzvah. It is the mitzvah.
Why would a mourner ask for privacy? From the outside, I admit to some hesitation even in answering that question. To do so almost undermines the very point being made – that the reasons belong to the mourner and are, in truth, none of our business. Even so, there are countless possible reasons, each valid in its own right and beyond our right to question. The relationship with the deceased may have carried its own wounds and pain, and the idea of revisiting it with others could intensify the grief. The mourner may be carrying wounds that outsiders can’t see. Sometimes the pressure of re-telling the story, again and again, feels unbearable. And sometimes the person simply lacks the strength to host, even well-intentioned visitors can feel overwhelming. In all of these cases, the responsibility of chesed is to trust the mourner’s voice. Not to question, not to speculate, and certainly not to push back.
When someone shares only part of a medical journey, or hints at family struggles, they are choosing what to disclose. The mitzvah is not to press for details, not to probe for more, but to respect the boundary they have set. True chesed often means resisting our curiosity, silencing our questions, and accepting that we are not entitled to know everything.
Even after shiva concludes, the spirit of that request remains. A family that asks for a private shiva is also, by implication, asking for privacy in the weeks that follow. It was shared with me that even long after the mourning period had ended, well-intentioned people still reached out with comments that began, “I know you wanted a private shiva, but…” Those words, however kindly meant, miss the same point. When someone has set a boundary, revisiting it later does not honor their healing – it reopens what they have asked to protect. Respecting privacy is not a temporary courtesy; it is an ongoing form of compassion.
Ultimately, the lesson extends far beyond mourning. In moments of loss, illness, or struggle, the truest kindness is not measured by presence alone, but by the sensitivity to discern when presence is welcome and when space is sacred. To offer that space is to affirm another person’s dignity, to trust their process, and to show that love need not always arrive at the door to be felt.
We often assume that chesed is measured in what we do, our presence, our words, our actions. But sometimes the truest chesed is measured in what we hold back: the questions we don’t ask, the visits we don’t make, the speculations we don’t voice. When a family requests a private shiva, honoring that request is not missing the mitzvah. It is fulfilling the mitzvah in the most honest way possible.
True nichum aveilim requires us to recognize that the mourner, not the visitor, sets the terms of comfort. Sometimes they need us near, sometimes they need silence, and sometimes they need distance. Real chesed is not about easing our own conscience. It is about giving the mourner what they ask for, even when what they ask for is nothing at all.