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The spreadsheet itself is nothing new.
It lives on laptops, in folders, on phones, in notebooks with careful tabs. Some families are open about it. Others hide it like something shameful.
It holds names, ages, family details, yeshivas, seminaries, who they’re related to, who they’ve already dated, who said no, and who might say yes next time.
It is normal. A practical tool. Just part of the process.
Or so people say.
But there’s another spreadsheet that no one ever shows anyone. One that doesn’t need Excel or tabs or color coding. One that runs in the back of your mind, almost without you realizing it.
The one you carry around every day.
It starts slowly.
It usually begins before your child is even dating. A name mentioned at a Shabbos table. A casual comment from a neighbor. A friend’s son, a friend’s daughter. You store it somewhere in the back of your mind.
Just in case.
At first, it feels harmless. You’re being thoughtful, prepared. This is how it works. You gather names, you listen, you make mental notes. You’re just doing what everyone else does.
But it grows fast.
Without meaning to, you start collecting more names, more details. After simchos, after neighborhood events, after random conversations about someone’s niece or cousin.
You remember who said what. You track which family would never work and which one might. You start noticing small things about people you barely know and filing them away.
By the time your child is ready to date, you are already carrying an entire network of possibilities, fears, and assumptions.
And it doesn’t stop running.
It stops being about names.
At some point, the spreadsheet becomes about more than just matches.
You start tracking yourself too.
Did we sound too eager when we asked about them? Did we come off too desperate? Too picky? Too casual?
What did they think of our family? Of our home? Of our kids’ friends? Of how we dress or how we talk?
Every conversation becomes a quiet calculation. Every invitation, every interaction, every school acceptance or rejection adds another data point.
You are no longer just trying to marry off your child.
You are also measuring yourself.
Where do we fit? How do we look? Are we doing enough? Are we too much?
You think you are being practical. But underneath, you are keeping score.
It is not something you can shut off.
That’s the hardest part.
Even after the process is over, after your child is married, after the simcha photos are framed and hung, the spreadsheet stays.
It shows up in other conversations. It colors how you see new neighbors, new families, new faces at shul or school events.
It still whispers in the background when you hear about a new engagement.
You think back on who suggested what. Who said yes and who said no. Who you used to worry about and who ended up surprising you.
And sometimes, when the house is quiet, it stirs again.
It brings back the names you almost forgot. The ones who almost were. The nights you spent wondering why it was taking so long. The months you felt like you were carrying it all alone.
The spreadsheet doesn’t just hold names.
It holds every stretch of waiting and every unspoken fear.
So where does that leave us?
Most of us will keep running the spreadsheet, whether we want to or not.
Because this is the world we live in. Because the system runs deep. Because hope is hard to kill.
But maybe it’s worth asking ourselves, once in a while, something quieter.
When we close the notebook or log off the app or finish the call with the shadchan, what are we still carrying?
What part of it is really about our children—and what part is about us?
And how much more space in our heads are we willing to give it?