I always envied those who told stories of bravery, who exuded bravery, who were—to their very core—brave by nature (e.g. every Israeli I ever met). To be brave was everything I couldn’t do and everything I wanted to be. To be someone who stood up for herself, her needs, her desires, no matter what people thought of her.
I dreamed of being the girl that saw an adventure ahead of her and ran after it without overthinking all the ways it could possibly go wrong.
***
When the war broke out, my dreams of bravery felt even more out of reach. Making the impossible choice to leave Israel to stay with my family in New York brought all of these feelings to the surface. Leaving felt like just another way of proving I would never be brave. I was ashamed. I wished I could live through the fear, or ignore the fear, like everyone who stayed, but instead I fled. At one point in New York, I broke down. I cried because I just wished I could be brave. Not just in the face of war, but in the tiny, everyday battles of bravery, too.
Brave enough to feel the fear and do it anyway,
Brave enough to stand up for myself and the life I want to live,
And most of all, I wished I was brave enough to be the girl I never was and always wanted to be.
***
When I finally returned to Israel, I found myself on a familiar bus route, heading home after work. A woman a few seats ahead caught my attention. I overheard her asking for directions to a street near my apartment, so I approached her and offered to show her the way.
We got off the bus together, introduced ourselves, and fell into an easy conversation as we walked. She had a warm, inviting presence, and I found myself opening up about my recent return to Israel. When we reached the corner to part ways, she turned to me with a smile.
“Here, let me give you my number. I’d love for you to come for Friday dinner. I know it’s hard to be away from family, so you can always call me.”
***
Two weeks later, there I was, about to climb onto the back of her son’s motorbike. I couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement mingled with a hint of apprehension. It was an unexpected adventure, one that I was diving into headfirst.
At that moment, I don’t know who had the right to feel more uncomfortable; me, the young woman getting on a stranger’s motorbike, or the young man who was told to fetch a stranger their mom met on a bus. We both agreed that this was a very weird situation, we laughed, and off we went. I was welcomed warmly by a sweet dog, a hug from my new friend, and a delicious meal. We talked, we ate, we walked around the neighborhood, and then it was time to leave. We got back on the motorbike and headed for my apartment.
At the first stoplight, he turned around with disbelief; telling me, “You’re so brave.” I laughed, denied it, and brushed it off. Then, at the next stoplight,
“You’re so brave for moving away from home and living here alone.”
And the next,
“You’re so brave for going to a stranger’s house for dinner.”
He kept doing it.
“You’re so brave for accepting a ride on a motorbike from a stranger—and you seem so calm.”
Every stoplight.
“You’re so brave for meeting new people everywhere you go.”
“You’re so brave for creating all of these new experiences.”
“You’re so brave for coming back to Israel during this war.”
I can’t help but laugh at the irony of it. How is it possible that he can’t stop coming up with ways that I was proving to be brave, when it’s the one thing I have always convinced myself I am not?
***
I think this is exactly what I needed—a wake-up call on my way home from yet another adventure. It’s something my younger self wouldn’t have even dreamed I could ever do. In this moment, I realized something. This was bravery in raw form, and I was fully immersed in the moment, soaking up every bit of it.
***
I’m learning that just because I wasn’t able to be brave when I was younger doesn’t mean that I will never be brave—or that I’m not brave now. So yes, maybe I wasn’t ‘brave enough’ to stay through the war. And that’s okay. I can be brave in other ways.
Like choosing to come back to Israel. And living on my own across the world from my family. And giving directions to a woman on the bus in a language I’m still trying to learn. And accepting an invitation to dinner at her house. And being vulnerable on the internet. And telling people how I really feel. And embracing as many adventures like this as I possibly can.
To be brave is all I’ve ever wanted. And now, on the back of that motorbike, in the heart of a city that’s become my home, I realize—I already am. It’s time I start believing it.
No sentence I write will ever be enough. No words can truly describe what I just felt—what I just lived through. My heart is broken, my mind is scattered, my words are failing me.
Writing this has been impossible, for no word I write is enough.
I could write about the fear that haunted my body since the moment I woke up to sirens on October 7th. How the word ‘fear’ doesn’t feel strong enough.
I could write about how difficult it was to process that missiles were headed straight towards me as I stumbled out of bed. How I only had a minute and a half to get down 3 flights of stairs to the bomb shelter. How we could hear the booms of every missile, intercepted or not.
I could write about the utter shock I felt as I waited out my first rainstorm of missiles in the shelter. How I stood there trying to wake up and wrap my head around all of this. How I started to read the news saying this time was different—unprecedented. How dozens of terrorists infiltrated villages, apartment buildings, and family homes in the south, and were currently murdering and kidnapping anyone in sight.
I could write about my total disbelief as I read that they were still there—and even more continued to come through the border. How I couldn’t fathom that they were still going door to door and taking entire buildings hostage. How I couldn’t help myself from calculating how long it might take for them to get to Tel Aviv. How on any other day, the south feels so far, but on that day, a few hours drive didn’t feel far enough.
I could write about every single “you okay?” text I sent and received. How every single time there was a delayed response, it was hard to breathe. How I realized a friend of mine was on the army base that was attacked. How I didn’t know if she was safe until the following day.
I could write about how I thought the news of this massacre against innocent civilians must be the worst thing I had ever heard. How I thought it was so horrible, so cruel, and yet I had no idea that we hadn’t even heard the worst of it.
I could write about how I was in such a state of shock that first day, I couldn’t even cry.
I could write about my 5th trip down to the shelter on the first day. How even when I was pretending to be strong, the worry was written all over my face. How my neighbor tried to calm me when we heard more booms than usual. How I remember him reasoning with me, “The Iron Dome is so good, you don’t need to worry,” he said, “Especially in Tel Aviv—the rockets never land in Tel Aviv.”
I could write about how we walked out of the shelter 20 minutes later to the smell of smoke in the air, learning that two rockets had just hit Tel Aviv. How one of them hit an apartment building on my friend’s street and another in the neighborhood next to mine, both places a short 15 minute walk away.
I could write about going back to my apartment in shock, not caring that I burned the dinner I was cooking before the siren went off. How it didn’t matter—I had no appetite anyways.
I could write about how reluctant I was to call my family, knowing this would be the straw that broke me. How I knew if I called them—if I heard their voices—it would break me. How all I wanted to do was to calm their fears, but all I needed was to voice mine.
I could write about my honest and raw confession to myself that first night—how the unprecedented nature of this attack, and the fact that the border was still open, left me wondering if I would survive this. The uncertainty of it all had me truly terrified that I would never get to see my family again.
I could write about how the realization hit me like a tidal wave—that just became true for hundreds of people. No warning, no goodbye. Just a completely devastating loss.
I could write about calling my brother that first night and losing it. How my first tears of what would be millions finally escaped.
I could keep writing about October 7th, and it will never be enough. I could write and write and write and I would never be finished. Nothing could even come close.
I could write about how I felt on October 8th, too, though these words will never be enough.
I could write about how I heard story after story of the victims, and my heart impossibly broke more. How people kept posting the numbers that wouldn’t stop rising: X killed, X injured, X kidnapped, X missing. How my frustration grew because numbers don’t do a person’s life story justice. How I thought of 500 people—500 individual human beings with their own personalities, their own loved ones who can’t imagine life without them, their own plans for the future that should still lay ahead of them.
I could write about how I didn’t think my heart could take anymore. How it wouldn’t stop breaking over and over and over.
I could write about the love I’ve always had for the desert—the same desert that just became the site of a massacre. How I was always comforted by it being so remote and quiet and peaceful. How I had just gone camping in that very same desert, not too far away, a few weeks ago. How I know that there is literally nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. How I cried for how helpless they must have felt.
I could write about how I will never see the desert the same.
I could write about how small this country is. How easily the victims of this massacre could’ve been a friend, a colleague, someone I met at a bar, or went on a date with, or chatted at a cafe with, or shared a laugh with, or listened to play music on the street, or…
I could write about how this is the current reality for most Israelis.
I could write about how I still feel such profound sadness and loss, whether I knew them personally or not. How these are our people, the souls of our nation, the ones who make up our community. How they make our home, home.
I could write about how I know I will never be the same. How the world will never be the same. How my home will never be the same.
I could write about feeling a complete loss of hope that the world is good, or that good will prevail over all evil. How I’ve never seen such deep-rooted cruelty and inhumanity so closely, so intensely, before. How now that I’ve seen it, I will never be able to forget it.
I could write about how much I wish I could unsee it all. How I wish I could unsee the woman my age, dragged through Gaza by her hair; naked and unmoving. How I wish I could unsee that little boy, kidnapped and pushed around by Palestinian children like he was a toy. How I wish I could unsee another girl begging for her life. How I wish I could unsee the mothers arms clutching onto her children as they are taken away.
I could write about how the attack was so unfathomable—so utterly terrifying—that my sense of security had left me completely. How the one place I have always felt most safe to live my life completely and truly, suddenly felt like the most dangerous place I could possibly be.
I could write about sobbing for hours on end, alone in my apartment. How I wished more than anything, to be able to cry with the comfort of my mom’s arms around me. How I wished she could just hold me and protect me as I tried to process it all. How I had never hated living alone until that very moment. How my mind just kept fearing the worst, no matter how much I tried to stop it.
I could write about how I had no clue what the next day would bring, or even the next hour.
I could write about October 9th, too, but words do not do it justice.
I could write about how I was paralyzed with fear. How it felt like the room was closing in on me when I learned that they started attacking from Lebanon, too.
I could write about how each notification on my phone left me more frightened, more broken, more paralyzed. How my phone kept dinging; rockets in the south, rockets in the center, terrorist infiltration from the south, terrorist infiltration from the north, terrorist infiltration from the east.
I could write about how it got even worse. How with every hour that passed, more people were added to the list of victims. How with every minute, it seemed like they uncovered new methods of torture that only the most vicious, inhumane evil could ever come up with. How they didn’t just write about it, they recorded it. How I couldn’t fathom a human being capable of any of it.
I could write about how my mind played an endless loop of the worst possibilities for the future. How terrified I was knowing that the evil we saw in the south would come for more blood if given the chance. How every single noise had me questioning if I was next.
I could write about crying and crying and the tears never ending. How the sobs shook through my body harder than I’ve ever felt in my life.
I could write about my fear for my own life, my fear for my friends’, my fear for my country, my fear for the soldiers protecting us.
I could write about how everything just felt unbearably terrifying and all I could bring myself to do was sit there in my fear.
I could write about how I haven’t been able to breathe properly since I went to sleep on October 6.
I could write about all of it, and it will never be enough. I could write and write and write and I would never be finished.
No matter how many details I use to describe how I didn’t just hear the booms, I felt them,
No matter how explicitly I describe the sobs that wouldn’t stop raking through my body,
No matter how meticulously I express the devastating loss of human life,
No matter how clearly I recall how much I feared for my own life,
No matter how long I write about the lifetime that was these last few weeks,
No matter how much of my heart is pouring onto this page,
Nothing I write will ever be enough.
As I read this back to myself, I think of more details, more pain, more memories that portray what it was like for those few days. But to what end? No word I write will ever, ever be enough.
—
I write this knowing I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have been in Tel Aviv. I’m lucky that everyone I care about is safe and alive. And if this is what it feels like to be lucky…my heart is in pieces over everyone who wasn’t.
—
The people we lost on October 7, and every day since then, will never be forgotten. This country, this community, will feel their loss deeply, forever.
Loneliness. We often think about loneliness as a bad thing–something we should try to avoid at all costs. Like, god forbid we feel lonely sometimes, then we must’ve done something wrong, or there must be something wrong with us. It feels shameful to admit when we’re lonely because we think it must be our fault–that maybe we are a flawed human being. Yet, the truth is feeling lonely is part of being human.
I must admit that I have felt pretty lonely since moving back to Israel. Last year, I had distractions and obligations that kept me surrounded by people constantly. I was actually around people so much that the introvert in me was desperate for alone time. I thought living alone now would be the sanctuary I needed to decompress after a long day–but now I have entire days where I am completely alone.
It’s clear now that I’m essentially starting over this time around. Unfortunately, most of the people I had become close with last year are no longer here, and the friends I do have here work during the day…which leaves me very bored and very alone while I’m unemployed.
I never thought I would say this, but I’ve had enough time to myself. Actually, I’ve had too much. I am itching to do things and be around people whenever I can…and if you know me personally, you know how crazy it is for me to admit something like that.
When I realized how lonely I was, I started to feel a lot of shame. I started to compare my life to everyone I saw on Instagram through the picture-perfect lens social media so kindly provides us. I started to compare my life to everyone I know here too, who had more established lives and jobs and friendships. I started to believe that there was something wrong with me because I didn’t have a lot of people in my life here.
I didn’t want to tell anyone I was feeling this way because I was ashamed of not having it all figured out–of not having the perfect life sorted from the second I stepped off the plane (which BTW, my anxiety told me is a totally normal expectation to have for myself, and when I write it down, I do, in fact, see how totally insane it is).
The shame surrounding loneliness causes us to do everything we possibly can to avoid feeling it. When I’m feeling lonely, I find myself wanting to do things for the sake of doing them, rather than because I actually want to. Loneliness often makes us turn toward things or people we otherwise wouldn’t choose, because all we want is some resemblance of human connection. Loneliness makes people drink more than they know they should, keep unhealthy friendships for the sake of “having friends”, swipe endlessly on dating apps without actually connecting–you get the picture. We all do whatever we can to avoid feeling or seeming lonely.
But as I finally started to explore my loneliness with curiosity, rather than judgment, I thought: What if I just sit with it? What if I just sit with the discomfort of loneliness and accept that it’s a natural part of life? That feeling lonely isn’t a judgment of my character, but simply a result of my circumstances. What if I just accepted that there is no shame in feeling lonely, or not having a lot of friends–especially when I just moved to a new place? What if I used my loneliness to get to know myself on a deeper level than I ever have before? To find out what I want my life to look like, and then intentionally build that life piece-by-piece?
I want to make it clear that I am in no way trying to glamorize the feeling of loneliness because when we are deep in the feeling, it simply sucks. There’s no better way to put it–it sucks to feel like everyone else has their lives together and I don’t. It sucks to feel like everyone else has an abundance of friends and I don’t. Feeling lonely is not fun in any way, shape, or form, and sometimes it sucks so much that all we can do is cry.
What I am trying to say is that when I challenge myself to “zoom out” and see my situation for what it is–a girl who just made a huge change and hasn’t had much time to settle and meet people yet–I can see myself as less of a failure and more of a person that is just going through the rollercoaster of life. In my case, loneliness is a normal part of the moving-across-the-world-by-myself process. There are ups and there are downs, and that’s okay. I know that with time, things will get better; I will meet people, I will feel more settled, and I will certainly feel less lonely.
And soon enough I’m going to be so glad I have my safe, quiet, lonely apartment to unwind in.
Written by Jessica Bard.
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Growing Through. 