An American trauma therapist in Israel at War

I made it to Israel—on the last flight before war with Iran officially began. Months ago, the American Jewish Medical Association announced a “Trauma Mission to Israel.” The name was jarring, but as a psychologist who treats trauma—and as a Jew still reeling from my own trauma after October 7—I knew I had to go. I thought this mission might help me heal myself while learning to better heal others.

Over the past 19 months, one truth has crystallized: I am, above all, a proud Jewish Zionist. As many around me have retreated from this identity, shaken by the tidal wave of antisemitism, my instinct has been the opposite—to lean in. Even when it would be easier to look away, to numb myself or disconnect, I won’t. I can’t.

In the weeks after 10/7, I was consumed by the need to respond. I posted relentlessly on social media, hoping facts and truth might pierce through the noise. Maybe, somehow, I could slow the avalanche of propaganda. But it was like screaming into a storm.

At first, I tried to process it all with the people I loved. I’d send articles, headlines, horrific videos to family and friends—anything to convey the scale of the nightmare. One day, my husband gently said, “This is too much. I don’t want to know how bad it is.” I realized I had to find others who felt what I felt, who heard the same alarm bells. It took time, but I found them. I’ve lost friends I thought were forever—but I’ve gained new ones who stand by me without hesitation, who don’t flinch in the hard moments, and who understand that silence is not neutral.

But the losses cut deep. A childhood best friend told me I could “vent” to her anytime. I asked instead for her to publicly express empathy after 10/7. She paused for half an hour, then replied, “I love you. But I don’t get involved in geopolitical issues.” That word—geopolitical—rang in my ears for days. And just like that, a 30-year friendship dissolved. I didn’t know then that I’d have to practice letting go again and again: friends who posted constant anti-Israel rhetoric but never mentioned the hostages; progressive allies who stood with me for every cause but abandoned me for being a Zionist; acquaintances who scoffed at antisemitism or claimed victimhood when asked to care.

Some losses were more personal. One former friend—who used to call himself an “honorary Jew”—shared vile posts day after day. Then, one day, he shared a headline about a Jewish mother and child attacked outside a school. I felt hope. Maybe he was waking up. But underneath, he wrote: “There go the Jews, crying antisemitism again.” Another goodbye. Another piece of grief.

And then there were the daily traumas: arriving at my office to see the neighboring Israeli café smeared in red paint, graffiti reading, “Form line here for genocide.” Watching hostage posters torn down in broad daylight, by people I once waved to at the farmer’s market. It’s a surreal kind of gaslighting—to watch your community demonized, erased, and blamed all at once.

So I acted. I found ways to channel the pain: volunteering, joining a stickering campaign, helping a pro-Israel congressman in a high-stakes race. I even started a nonprofit called Gesher Campus Care to support college students facing antisemitism-related trauma. But even with all that, I felt pulled toward Israel. Toward being here. To tell Israelis they are not alone. To see, firsthand, what the world is trying not to see.

I came to Israel once before, just after 10/7, while my daughter was here on her pre-college gap year. Then, the pain was fresh, but the energy was fierce. Israelis were devastated—but determined. This time, it feels different. They are tired. Worn down. The war drags on. The hostages remain. The world seems upside down. And they see it too—the twisted narratives, the deafening silence. They feel alone.

The mission itself may not go forward now. Certainly not as planned. Sirens wail through the night. Emergency alerts jolt us awake. Sleep comes only after sunrise, if at all. And yet—even here, in this suspended, fragile moment—I’m learning about trauma in ways no textbook could teach. I see how Israelis adapt in real-time: 90 seconds to shelter with babies, dogs, elders in tow. There’s no panic. Just instinct, rhythm, grit. And something else—connection. Even in fear, they find each other. They comfort, sing, joke. Somehow, they keep living.

“Man plans, G-d laughs,” goes the Yiddish saying. And here in Israel, you see what it means. Life is constantly rearranged. Certainty is a luxury. But through it all, people hold each other up—with courage, creativity, and an unbreakable spirit. It is a masterclass in resilience, and I am humbled to be here, learning from it.

Maybe there is no neat ending to this. Maybe the sadness doesn’t go away. Maybe we’re meant to let it in—to grieve, to rage, and still reach for one another. To say: I see you. I’m with you. You are not alone.

And maybe that’s enough for now. To be present in the storm. To bear witness. To love this place and the people of this country so fiercely it hurts. Because this is our survival story. And somehow, it is a privilege to live it.