“I thought my life was over.”
Three months into my role at The Next Step, the only Israeli nonprofit solely dedicated to serving individuals living with limb loss and limb difference, I planned to be learning systems, strategy, and structure.
Before I officially began, I made it a priority to meet members of the community. I wanted to understand who they are, how they got here, and what this organization means to them. It did not take long for a pattern to emerge.
There is no single story of limb loss.
It can happen to a soldier in combat. It can happen in what was supposed to be a safe zone. It can happen when a terrorist pulls someone from their truck on the morning of October 7. It can happen in a workplace accident, at a family barbecue, or following a sudden medical diagnosis where amputation becomes the only way to save a life. Sometimes it is instantaneous. Sometimes it follows a long and painful decision.
But alongside that range of experiences, I kept hearing the same words.
“I thought my life was over.”
Again and again, people described that moment. The belief that they would never walk again, never write again, never return to anything resembling a full or joyful life.
And then, just as consistently, came the turning point. Another theme emerged.
“Then The Next Step walked into my hospital room, and everything changed.”
It is one thing to hear that sentence. I got chills every time. It is another to witness it.
In recent weeks, as surgeries and treatments resumed after months disrupted by war, I joined a series of hospital visits. These visits are only one of the ways The Next Step supports individuals in the earliest and most vulnerable stages of recovery. They are led by people who have lived it. Veteran amputees who show up to share, to listen, and to quietly demonstrate what is possible.
This past week, I watched a moment unfold that I will not forget.
We entered a room where the patient barely looked up. His answers were short. His gaze stayed fixed downward. The air felt heavy. I wondered if we should leave, if our presence was intrusive rather than helpful.
And then, slowly, something shifted.
One of the veteran members began speaking with him. Not in grand or inspirational terms, but in the language of shared experience. A comment here. A small joke there. The kind of conversation that only someone who has been through it can have.
Minute by minute, the room changed.
The man who had avoided eye contact began to engage. He lifted up his head. His voice strengthened. And then, he smiled.
By the time we left, they were deep in conversation, already building a connection that had not existed just moments earlier.
I had heard this story before. But this time, I felt it.
There are many ways to measure impact. Numbers, programs, reach. At The Next Step, those matter of course. But there is also a quieter measure. The moment when someone begins to believe that life is not over.
These past months have unfolded against the backdrop of a war that has reshaped daily life in both visible and invisible ways. Members of this community navigate not only recovery, but also sirens, uncertainty, and physical realities that make reaching shelter even more complicated.
And still, they show up.
They show up for one another. They walk into hospital rooms. They sit beside someone at the lowest point and help them begin, slowly, to imagine something different. Not the life they had before. A life with a community, ensuring that nobody is left abandoned alone. A life that is still fully worth living.