Author: Jessica Bard

Jessica Bard is a writer who strives to be nothing but her authentic self in writing, life, etc. This blog is like her child, friend, therapist, and maybe even support group--all in one. In a nutshell, this blog is the passion project of her dreams (a dream she didn't even realize she had until she started doing it!) Creating this blog and connecting with its readers has been one of her greatest joys over the last year. She is beyond excited to continue learning and growing through all that life has to offer.

Who am I when I’m just myself?

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I like to think I enjoyed school throughout my life, but what I really liked was what school did for me. I know I was never the smartest student in the class, but my grades were good enough to get recognition. I used my academic accomplishments to validate that I was not just smart or successful, but that I was good and worthy. Year after year, I buried my insecurities and anxieties in A’s and academic excellence awards. 

It’s been over a year since I graduated from my university, and I still struggle with the loss of my academic identity. Academics always provided a great distraction from my insecurities. It gave me a certain amount of control over how people viewed me. I used my grades to prove my worthiness, my capability, and my intelligence; and I was pretty good at it. 

Upon graduation, however, that identity quickly slipped through my fingers. I finished school and decided not to pursue higher education (for now). Instead, I did something I never thought I would and moved across the world to get a part-time teaching job. In this role, I was average. 

I was average, and I was okay with it because I saw it as a gap year-–a break from proving myself. It didn’t matter what my job was because I had a different focus; living and learning about a new country and culture. It didn’t matter if my job was impressive because the simple fact that I was living here was. And it was only supposed to be temporary.

Now that I made aliyah, however, I’m searching for a “real job” in the “real world,” and those feelings of inadequacy and anxiety have started to resurface–but this time, I don’t have academics to hide behind. 

Instead, I’m facing these feelings head-on as I navigate my way into the Israeli workforce. 

It’s both frustrating and humbling looking for a job when I’m not fluent (or even intermediate) in Hebrew. My options are limited to mostly entry-level positions in specific fields where they want English speakers. It’s difficult to accept that the positions I thought I would go for post-college simply aren’t available to a non-Hebrew speaker here.

I feel my anxiety beginning to resurface, but this time it’s zeroing in on job titles instead of grades. I keep searching for a position that seems impressive and proves my intelligence to others. I’ve worked hard my entire life to build this identity, and clearly I’m having trouble letting it go. 

It’s hard to let go, but I’m working on it.

The first step is recognizing when these insecurities start to surface. Next, I try to really think about why a job title feels so important to me (and it usually has something to do with wanting recognition from others). At this point in my life, I know wanting recognition from others comes from the deep-rooted belief that I’m not good enough–or worthy enough–without it. I try to gently remind myself that I am good and worthy and smart no matter what title I hold, or what recognition I receive. I recognize that I am only trying to gain external validation to heal internal wounds. 

I’m also trying to focus on how losing my academic identity created space for something new. Maybe this rigid identity isn’t meant to be replaced by another temporary solution (like an impressive job title). Maybe it’s actually meant to simply be freedom–freedom to let myself wander and grow and experience life for what it is, rather than what I think it should be. I am trying to build a life for myself with meaning and fulfillment, and I have to accept that it just might not look like the conventional vision of success.

I’m trying to give myself some grace (and have some humility). I just moved to a foreign country where I don’t speak the language very well. I’m trying to accept that it’s going to take patience and hard work to find a job that brings meaning and joy to my life in the way that I’m looking for.

Until I get there though, I’m working on filling this space with more things that heal my heart. I’m going to keep writing, painting, watching the sunset, practicing Hebrew, reading, doing yoga, and developing my relationships with people that bring light and goodness into my life. It won’t magically fix all of my insecurities or fears, but I think slowly, piece by piece, it will show me who I am behind the grades and accolades. Who I am when I am just as good and worthy and intelligent as I was when I was a student. Who I am when I am just myself.

My hope is for this blog to become a place where we grow together–instead of me simply writing into a void. In order to create that community, I invite you to scroll to the bottom of this page and comment any reflections you have (commenting and liking on here helps my website grow and reach a wider audience, which is really cool!).

If you don’t feel comfortable sharing publicly, of course, you can also message me privately as usual.

So, in the comments, I’d love to hear more about what identity(s) you are holding on to. How might it be holding you back (or pushing you forward)?

Written by Jessica Bard.

Home Sweet Tel Aviv.

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After being in New York for a few months, I felt so disconnected from my life in Israel that I seriously considered just staying home. I could barely even remember why I wanted to return. Of course I knew, but I just didn’t feel it the way I thought I would. I thought I would get sick of being home, itching to come back, with no doubt that this was the right decision. But I didn’t want to leave. How could I after realizing everything I missed while I was gone?

When I thought about staying in New York, however, one feeling remained strong in my memory: the complete and utter sadness I felt over the thought of leaving Israel just a few months ago. When I remembered that, I knew I owed it to myself to see this through.

So, despite the pit in my stomach at the thought of leaving my family and friends once again, I did it. I got on the flight and landed in Israel as an Olah Hadasha (new immigrant).

Now I’m back in Tel Aviv, and–sorry Mom, cover your ears (or eyes)–I immediately remembered all of the reasons why I love it here; why I was so excited to not just move back here, but to make aliyah (become a citizen). For a while, I forgot how much this place felt like the most challenging and rewarding and beautiful home I’ve ever known. I feel lighter here–happier. I can’t explain how, or why, but I do. 

And somehow it’s like I never left. The place I had grown to know and love had waited for my return and embraced me with open arms. Strangers on the plane, the beach, and even the woman I bought a toaster from on Facebook marketplace, offered to help in my job search and invited me to Shabbat dinners. This was the Israel I couldn’t imagine leaving a few months ago. The place that feels like home even when I’m surrounded by people I don’t know, speaking a language I only barely understand. 

The first morning I woke up in my own apartment, I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. I was back in the city I love, living by myself, about to create a life that is entirely my own. My gratitude for this was ever-flowing.

I felt a sense of inner peace I hadn’t felt in a long time–since the last time I was here, probably. It’s the kind of inner peace that lets me know everything will be okay because I am exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment in time. 

I talk about this inner peace even as I recognize how I felt in New York–that I was happy there too. Happy in a different way, but happy nonetheless. I felt happy in a comfortable-and-familiar kinda way. I was glad to be with family and old friends, but I couldn’t help feeling like something was missing. But here, in Tel Aviv, I feel happy in a passion-and-excitement-about-life kinda way, and, frankly, that’s what I’m after.

It’s a hard pill to swallow that this is where I feel my best right now, because wouldn’t it just be so much easier if I felt happier where my roots are? There are things about New York and people there that I love too, but for some reason Tel Aviv is just where my soul comes alive. I think I felt so lost while I was home because I wished that following my heart didn’t mean leaving everything else across the world. But alas, here I am across the world, and so far it feels pretty spectacular to be back.

Written by Jessica Bard.

I don’t know.

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I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I knew exactly how my life would play out, where I would live, what jobs I would have, if I would go back to school, and what kind of relationship I wanted. I thought I knew exactly what would make me happy and fulfilled for the rest of my life. 

Yes, I really thought I had it all figured out at 23 years old. 

Now most of you are probably laughing to yourself thinking, how could anyone possibly know what they want at 23? And you’re right. How could anyone possibly know? We only come to conclusions and make decisions based on what we already know, so, why did I think I had all the answers at such a young age?

Well, I was basing decisions and projections for my future on my first 23 years of life. 23 years (many of which were spent dealing with anxiety and perfectionism) of following a path (a path that was likely the result of aforementioned anxious and narrow-minded thinking). My anxiety made me think I didn’t have a choice. I had to have all the answers, or else my life would fall apart. Dramatic, I know. So I followed the path for as long as I could. Every time I was confronted with a new idea worth keeping, I would shuffle some things around in my brain and figure out how I could repave the path and still end up at the same destination and achieve the same goals.

Since coming back to New York in July, I have essentially questioned every belief I once held about my future. All at once. I have no clue where I want to live–so I had a nice little breakdown after getting accepted for Aliyah and signing a lease for an apartment in Tel Aviv. I have no clue what kind of job I want–yep, another breakdown while job-hunting on LinkedIn. I have no clue what I want in a relationship, or if I even want a relationship right now–yet another breakdown (and breakup).

My therapist says it’s good for me to admit that I don’t know what I want. Instead of chasing after this image I have for my future, admitting “I don’t know” actually allows me to question if I even want these things anymore. She says when I admit that I don’t know, I actually give myself the space to listen to my gut (or my “Knowing”, as Glennon Doyle would call it). 

When I admitted that I didn’t know how I felt about my relationship, I allowed myself to sit with the uncomfortable thought that maybe this wasn’t what I wanted. Maybe I don’t want to consider someone else while making these really big choices about my future. Maybe I don’t want to be dependent on another person or have someone dependent on me. Maybe the type of relationship he wanted was just too different from the type of relationship I wanted.

When I finally just admitted “I don’t know” and sat in the discomfort with my Knowing, it was crystal clear. I had to end things. Not because he did anything wrong (he didn’t), or because he was a bad person (he isn’t), but because I just didn’t want it. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right–that he wasn’t right for me.

It’s not easy to admit that I don’t know. It’s not easy to admit it to myself, and it’s especially not easy to admit it to a really kind and thoughtful person with whom I started to imagine a future with. It’s not easy to tell people that I don’t have it all figured out. That, maybe, I changed my mind.

But, oh, what a relief it is. I don’t know, and it’s okay. The world isn’t falling apart. Life still carries on. I can still create an awesome future for myself, and maybe that future will be even more awesome than I originally thought possible. I don’t know. And. It’s. Okay.

I want to say I made a mistake (or many)–that if I could go back, I would do things differently–but I didn’t and I wouldn’t. Every choice I made was the right choice at the time, but with new experiences and new information, I started to feel differently. 

I wish I could have all the answers now; to know where I’m meant to be and when and with who. But that’s just not how life works. So, from now on, if you ask me a question about my future, don’t be surprised if all I can give you is “I don’t know”.

Written by Jessica Bard.

When home doesn’t feel like home.

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Two weeks ago I wrote a draft that was so depressing I cried every time I tried to re-read it. Frankly, it was less of a draft and more of a brain-dump. I poured every single sad thought I’ve felt these past 2 months at home into a google doc page in about 10 minutes. 

I wasn’t even processing as I typed. I just let it out, typing as the tears rolled down my cheeks. When I finally finished, I reread it once and started crying harder; so I did what any normal person would do and shut my laptop for days, refusing to read those words again. But I knew it then just as I know now, I was about to face the feelings I had buried since landing in New York.

Nobody really warns you about how difficult it is to come back home after being gone for an entire year. Well actually, that’s not true. They warn you about “culture shock” and “re-entry”, and those are both very real–but those were the least of my problems.

The hardest part about coming home for me was finding that the people and places that once felt so familiar become somewhat foreign in the blink of an eye. 

When I came back, I expected things to be the same (more or less), but, wow, a year is a long time to be gone. What I initially thought was just sadness about an incredible year abroad ending turned out to be so much more than that. I found that a large part of me was actually grieving the loss of the life I had at home before I left. The life that wasn’t patiently waiting for me to return while I was away. 

When I first came home, I felt completely and utterly alone. I thought nobody could possibly understand what I was going through. Plus, not only had I changed a lot this past year, but so had almost every single other person in my life. I felt like I no longer fit into anyone’s routines. I felt like I didn’t even know these people anymore (the new versions of them, at least). Mainly, I felt like my home—the place that was supposed to always accept me and comfort me—was rejecting me. 

This past year, I had been so wrapped up in my life on the other side of the world, I hadn’t realized just how much changed in my absence. I know it sounds ridiculous because of course I know life goes on, the world doesn’t revolve around me, blah blah blah. I know that, but life doesn’t just go on. People don’t just change a little bit in a year, they transform. 

When I was finally ready to re-open my laptop and face the words I left on that page, I began to realize why I was so uncomfortable. So sad. Overwhelmed. Conflicted. I came to understand that my home wasn’t, in fact, rejecting me. For the first time, I was just truly confronting the reality of moving so far away from home. The reality that no matter how much I call and FaceTime, I still wasn’t there. 

I missed a lot–but I didn’t just miss birthdays, holidays, or even special events like my brother’s graduation. I missed out on the little things that are actually really big things; like family dinners or late night talks on the couch. I missed the ways people subtly change over time, like my brother starting to mature and build his confidence, or my sister healing and becoming really happy, or my family slowly grieving and healing after my grandpa’s passing. I missed so much and it feels impossible to know all of this and just accept it. 

—

Since writing that first draft, I’ve done a lot of “soul-searching”…if you want to call it that. As it turns out, my version of soul-searching is crying a lot and questioning everything—including my own sanity. Thankfully the tears have (somewhat) slowed and I concluded that I am a (somewhat) sane human being. 

The funny thing is that once I finally processed what it meant to “come home”, I was able to see how many of these changes were actually good. Even if I wasn’t there to witness these changes gradually, there’s also some beauty in getting to see how much progress someone has made so clearly–a perspective I had only because I lived far away. 

Since confronting my feelings, I also took it upon myself to finally stop moping and make the most of the time I have left before I leave again. Pushing people away and avoiding my feelings wasn’t making things better in the slightest. So now I’m making more of an effort to show the people I love that I want to be a part of their routines, I want to see and embrace the ways they’ve changed. It’s not easy, but it helps.

And just like that, home is feeling a bit more like home again.

Written by Jessica Bard.

An Open Letter to Israel.

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September 1, 2022.

An Open Letter to Israel,

Thank you. 

Thank you for the friendships. The laughs, the trips, the nights out, the beach days, the many, many meals eaten (and cooked) together. It’s so beautiful to think that although we came from all over the world, we somehow ended up here, together. Thank you. 

Thank you for broadening my perspective on what it means to be human. Leaving the American bubble of politeness, individualism, and so-called “perfection”, and diving into this brutally honest, emotional, and tough country showed me a side of humanity I had never seen before. A community where neighbors truly help neighbors; not because it’s expected of them, or because they want help in return, but because they just care for one another. It’s a culture that seems to create this norm effortlessly. I have learned so much about vulnerability, self-advocacy, and what it means to be a part of a real community by immersing myself into it. Thank you.

Thank you for reconnecting me to an old friend. Losing touch with someone who once felt like family is rough, but you brought him back into my life at the perfect time. Not only as a friend, but as a roommate who took me in when I really needed it. He was a piece of home when home was 5,000 miles away. Thank you.

Thank you for the spiritual awakening. At the start of this year, I was craving spirituality in my life, but I had no idea how to go about cultivating it. You brought me the right people to learn from, talk to, and get inspired by. I can honestly say I have never felt more connected to G-d than I have this past year, and, consequently, I have never felt more strength and hope to now continue on to whatever the future holds for me. Thank you.

Thank you for bringing me a love that is kind and pure. A love that makes me feel comfortable, excited, happy. Falling in love with him is a gift. Thank you.

Thank you for everything; the good times and the bad. They brought me here, so grateful for this life, this country, this past year. It’s been a wild ride, and yet I have a feeling our adventures together are just beginning.

I have simply loved this past year with you—so much that I just can’t leave for good. So don’t you worry, I’ll be back. 

Sincerely, 

A Girl Who’s Aliyah Paperwork Can’t Get Processed Fast Enough

Bye, Bat Yam.

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June 28, 2022.

Is it still the Bat Yam Yoman if I don’t live in Bat Yam anymore?

Yep, it’s true; I moved. I moved out of Bat Yam and into Tel Aviv in May. While this was always the plan I had for after my program finished in July, I ultimately moved earlier than I had anticipated. 

There were many factors that led to my decision to leave my apartment in Bat Yam. I knew that when I faced my feelings and contemplated my options, moving was the only true solution for me, yet I still struggled to accept that this is where this situation had brought me.

My decision to leave a situation that was, from my perspective, toxic and unhealthy, was difficult. Accepting that friendships that once felt like family had evolved into something that left me feeling alone, anxious and unhappy is no easy pill to swallow. Not just because of the obvious hurt that occurs in the present when a friendship turns sour, but because it begins to taint all the memories you once had with those people–even the good ones.

With time, space, and a new perspective, I can now recognize that despite the sad ending, I still have a lot of gratitude for these friendships. They brought me some really great times and, in the end, I learned a lot. I also learned to accept that some people just aren’t compatible with each other and that’s okay.

I learned that true, lasting friendships can’t happen with just anyone. Trust and strength and love don’t simply appear instantly with people because I want them to, or because I feel alone, or because we spend a lot of time together.

I read a quote somewhere that compared people to anchors and engines. The analogy explains the different types of people we can have in our lives; someone can be an anchor (meaning they hold you back or keep you stagnant), or someone can be an engine (meaning they push you forward–encouraging and inspiring you to grow). Some people might be okay with friends who act more like anchors; it’s comfortable and maybe even easier. But I want more. I want my friends to inspire me to be a better person, not encourage negative and unhealthy behaviors. We are a sum of the people we spend the most time with, so yeah, I’ve become more selective in my friendships.

Ultimately, these really difficult relationships showed me how lucky I am to have the people in my life that inspire me, respect me, and love me for who I am, and I will no longer accept anything less.

After taking a big look at the energy I was surrounding myself with, I just knew I needed to get out of that environment. I realized I have to actively choose the type of person I want to be every day, and that person is impacted by who I spend my time with.

Here’s to the end of my Bat Yam era…

Jewish pride.

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May 24, 2022.

If you’ve ever wanted to see a perfect display of the strength and resilience of the Jewish people, all you have to do is spend a few weeks in Israel during Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut.

On Yom HaShoah, my Masa program coordinated a day at Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum in Jerusalem. We spent the day reading and discussing testimonials written by people who perished in the Holocaust, all of them produced shortly before their deaths. As we made our way through the letters, poems, and pieces of art, I realized there is something so heartbreakingly beautiful about learning about the Holocaust in Israel. So many of the testimonials referenced hopes for the future of the Jewish people, and even a Jewish state. When people knew they would not survive the concentration camps themselves, they were sure that the Jewish people would prevail and eventually find their way back to their home land. It wasn’t lost on me how lucky we are to be here now, actually living out that dream less than 100 years later.

Yom HaShoah Opening Ceremony at Yad Vashem

That same evening, I had the honor of attending the Opening Ceremony at Yad Vashem. In this ceremony, Holocaust survivors and their descenents lit six torches to commemorate the 6 million Jews lost during the Holocaust. As each Holocaust survivor was called up to the stage, the number of children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren was announced to everyone in their introduction. It was a beautiful testament to the legacies they were able to create. As the ceremony came to a close, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with emotion as we sang the Hatikva alongside Holocaust survivors, the Prime Minister, the President, Israelis, and Jews from around the world; realizing that after all this tragedy, we are here, standing together in the holy land. 

Just one week after Yom HaShoah, I watched as the whole country stood still once again as we mourned the lives lost during military service and terror attacks. We stood together in silence as sirens sounded across the nation in their memory. In a Memorial Day completely different from the US, I realized how deeply each person was affected by loss here. With mandatory military service, the gravity of Memorial Day was truly recognized.

Despite the grief during the day, as the sun set and we moved from Yom HaZikaron to Yom HaAtzmaut, the energy completely flipped. Israel exploded with celebratory fireworks, parties, and barbeques. In a display that only Israelis could pull off so effortlessly, it was evident that despite all of the hardship and all of the pain, Israel is still standing and we must celebrate the life and freedom we are so lucky to have!

“Are you safe?”

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March 29-April 24, 2022.

There is no neat way to share my reactions to the recent string of terror attacks in Israel, so here are some semi-unfiltered thoughts I’ve recorded over the last few weeks.

March 29, 2022

I won’t lie, I’m scared. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. There was another shooting in a suburb of Tel Aviv. 5 people died. 2 of them Ukrainian refugees. The streets are empty tonight.

March 30, 2022

They told us Israel is on high alert. This 3rd act of terror within a week and a half indicates there could be more. I’m scared to leave my apartment, even just to get groceries or go to work. How can I?

April 3, 2022

Things have been quiet. I’m less nervous now. I started living normally again, but I’m more aware of my surroundings. I still look over my shoulder, I still keep my head up on the bus, and I still only walk with one headphone in. Bigger crowds make me a little nervous, but I think things are returning to normal again. Hopefully that’s the last of it.

April 7, 2022

I knew it from the first “are you safe?” text. This terror attack hit closer to home.
I saw “Shooting” and “Dizengoff Street” in the news alert, and I swear my heart stopped. Dizengoff Street. It happened at a bar on Dizengoff. In the center of Tel Aviv. A place I go every week. My hands shake, my heart pounds, and my eyes cry as I text my friends to see if they are okay. I’ve never felt true terror like this in my life. Terror that someone I know could’ve been there, could’ve gotten hurt, could’ve died. I felt frozen in fear.

I am shocked as the realization continues to set in that this happened at the bars my friends and I go to all the time. It’s packed on Thursday nights. It’s packed with innocent, young people just like me. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop thinking that these are young, innocent people. I can’t stop thinking about their family and friends having to receive this unexplainable, heartbreaking news. I can’t stop thinking about how their futures once full of hope and promise, are now cut way too short. I thank God that everyone I know is safe. 

Two innocent people were just proclaimed dead. They think 8 more are injured. They still haven’t found the terrorist. He’s somewhere in Tel Aviv. I fell asleep refreshing the news, waiting to hear if they caught the gunman.

April 8, 2022

I wake up to see they found and killed him in Jaffa. I feel relieved for a minute. I start crying again. I can’t stop thinking about last night. I can’t stop thinking about how innocent lives were lost because of this. I can’t stop thinking about how they were both in their 20’s. I can’t stop thinking about how it could’ve been anyone.

The naive innocence I once felt while roaming the streets of Tel Aviv feels like a distant memory. I know I’m supposed to be strong. I know we can’t let terror win. We must keep living. I just don’t know how.

April 24, 2022.

I’ve struggled a lot with the idea of “not letting terror win” since this last entry. My fear lessened over time, but I didn’t know how, or if, I could ever feel the same freedom and safety I once felt in Tel Aviv. The horror of people close to my age dying while they did something I do regularly…it’s impossible to sit with that and feel normal.

But then something happened–a new, stronger feeling began to take over. I finally began to understand what Israeli’s mean when they say we can’t let the terrorists win. I realized that if we stay inside, if we live our lives differently, if we choose not to live in a place that seems unsafe, what would happen? If everyone did this, Israel could cease to exist. It would prove to the terrorists that this can push us out; but it won’t. We cannot and will not let terror and violence keep us from living in Israel, the only true homeland to the Jewish people.

Yes, it will be scary to keep living life “normally” sometimes, but I’ve come to realize that a world without Israel is much scarier to me.

.עם ישראל חי (Am Yisrael Chai–The People of Israel Live).

—

May the memory of all the victims of the recent terror attacks be for a blessing.

March 22 – Be’er Sheva: Doris Yahbas (49), Laura Yitzhak (43), Rabbi Moshe Kravitzky and Menahem Yehezkel, (67)

March 27 – Hadera: Yezen Falah and Shirel Abukarat, (both 19)

March 29 – B’nei Brak: Amir Khoury (32), Ya’akov Shalom (36), Avishai Yehezkel (29), Victor Sorokopot (38), Dimitri Mitrik (23)

April 7 – Tel Aviv: Tomer Morad (28), Eytam Magini (27), Barak Lufan (35)

To share, or not to share.

Jessica Bard3 Comments

March 28, 2022.

Hey, it’s been a while.

I’ve missed writing this blog. I’ve missed the joys of the creative writing process. I’ve missed the challenge of finding just the right words or syntax to portray the abstract thoughts swirling around in my mind. I’ve missed the connection I feel to those who reach out about what I’ve written, saying something that resonated with them. I’ve missed the vulnerability of sharing my inner thoughts with the small piece of the world that reads this blog, and with it, the mini burst of nerves and excitement I feel when I finally click post. I’ve definitely missed this…so why haven’t I posted in almost 3 months?

The truth is, this blog is so special to me because I’ve always been honest about what I’m going through…but I guess it’s a lot easier to be honest when things are going well. Unfortunately, friendships, family, relationships, work, and all of the other little pieces of our lives get messy and hard sometimes; and the thought of sharing those messes with all the people who read this blog seemed impossible to me for a while.

I felt like I was at a crossroads: Should I share the difficult things I’ve been dealing with, or do I just stick to the easy and happier things in my life? I knew I definitely wasn’t ready for the first option, but the second felt inauthentic and wrong. So I did neither; I simply stopped writing.

I think many of you probably share my concerns about people only sharing their “highlight reels” on social media, but it’s really hard to be the one to actually take the leap and share the ugly stuff too. I want to be honest in telling people that moving away from home is really hard. It took time before I was hit with the reality of life in a new country, because I was seeing everything with rose-colored glasses for a long time.

That being said, I’m not posting this to detail all the ways in which my life has been hard lately, or to complain that what I’ve been going through is so enormously difficult or sad or anything like that (because it’s really not). I’m posting this to say I’m human and because I’m human, I have trouble admitting to you all that life isn’t always sunshine and rainbows.

I am overcome with relief and excitement as I finally write for this blog again. I look outside and see that the spring season is finally here; the season of renewal. I feel this opportunity for renewal in many aspects of my life, and it seems like the perfect time to start writing again.

Kalanit (Red Poppy) flowers blooming all over Israel

How do I know?

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December 14, 2021.

My decision to make aliyah (become a citizen of Israel) at the end of my Masa program feels easy in a lot of ways. Since I’ve made up my mind, I haven’t really questioned it. I know it’s the right choice for me. I know that these past few months I have felt so free and happy and at peace–probably more than I ever have in my whole life. As I have begun creating my own path and my own life here, I can’t imagine just picking up and leaving in 6 months. 

I love it here. I love the beautiful, little routines I am creating for myself. I love learning Hebrew and practicing it with random people. I love speaking with Israelis and other immigrants who have completely different belief systems and life experiences from my own; who challenge me to re-think what I have always thought to be “right” and “true”. I love the kind strangers and new friends I have met here. I love exploring my religious identity and spirituality. Most of all, I love what Israel is teaching me about humanity and community.

One of my best friends and I have always said that people come into our lives to teach us lessons, and when there are no more lessons to be learned, the relationships end in some form or another. Some friendships and relationships last a lifetime because you complement each other’s growth and continue to learn from them. Others last for a shorter period, teaching a lesson or two before it’s over. 

I feel like this frame of mind applies to places too. I felt bored of New York when I left, and I knew that was because I was no longer being challenged there. Ever since I arrived in Israel, each challenge I have faced has ignited a drive within me to grow in some form or another. I have felt a renewed sense of purpose and passion for life. I still feel like I have so much to learn from this place, which is why I know I can’t leave so quickly. 

So now that I know why I want to stay, I’m stuck with the question: How can I possibly feel that I’m living my best life here, all the while missing the most important people in my life? It’s a weird thing–to simultaneously miss people back home tremendously and actively choose to live across the world from them.

I miss my family and my friends so much. It hits me at the most unexpected times, in the most unexpected ways. I don’t even understand it myself; why this life here seems so worth the pain of missing the people I love. It’s certainly not easy, especially with a 7-hour time difference making even just a phone call that much more difficult. 

It’s hard to make the choices that nobody in my family has made before. It’s hard because most of them won’t fully understand it, no matter how much they want to. They may even blame me because I’m the one who left…and I guess maybe I am partly to blame. I know how it appears. I chose to move away from home–from my family and friends and everything else I’ve ever known.

That being said, I know that just because other people may not understand it, or just because it’s really challenging, or just because I miss my family and friends, doesn’t mean it’s not the right choice for me. How can I possibly explain that the same voice that’s reminding me how much I miss everyone is also the same voice that’s telling me to stay?