One Breath at a Time

This week I read Hostage by Eli Sharabi, the account of his 491 days in captivity in Gaza. It is a haunting and heartbreaking story. The details are plain and unsparing, and the emotional weight stays with you. One sentence stood out to me, a sentence he repeated to himself and to others who were held with him:

You always have a choice. Even in the worst times, you always have a choice, even if the only choice left is to take one breath.

That line stayed with me. It echoed in conversations throughout the week as parents described their children’s questions about hostages and war, as teenagers described feeling exposed when they walk through the world, and as adults spoke about the fear and uncertainty they carry every day. It felt like a sentence written for this moment in Israel and across the Jewish world.

It also touched something very personal. Years ago I lived through a period of illness and trauma that left me feeling fragmented and unsteady. My body felt unpredictable, my mind was overwhelmed, and each day required more effort than I knew how to give. During that time, the idea of choice became something I held onto. The choices available to me were small: a breath, a step, a minute. Yet even the smallest choice helped me stay connected to life when everything felt unstable.

There was a day during that period when I believed I had no choices left at all. What changed everything was a decision that felt almost invisible. I chose to live long enough to see what came next. The decision did not feel powerful. It felt fragile and hesitant. Still, it was a choice, and it allowed something inside me to keep moving.

After I finished Eli’s book, I opened journals I kept during those years. The handwriting inside is uneven. The entries describe fear, nightmares, and the exhaustion that comes from surviving more than the body or mind is ready to hold. Reading them brought me right back into that earlier version of myself. It reminded me how overwhelming life can feel when the nervous system is flooded and there is no clear path forward.

A great many Israelis and Jews around the world are living in that kind of emotional landscape right now. Parents are trying to answer their children’s questions while managing their own fear. Students instinctively shield their Jewish identity in public. Friends in Israel describe nights without sleep, mornings filled with dread, and a constant search for safety that never feels complete. Communities feel exposed in ways that shake the spirit.

No one chose this moment. No one asked for this kind of fear or grief.

Eli’s sentence points to something that still belongs to us: the ability to choose the next small step. These choices do not change the global reality. They do not bring hostages home by force of will or erase the sorrow that has settled into our collective body. They do, however, help us stay human in the midst of everything we cannot control.

A person can take a slower breath when anxiety rises.
They can pause long enough to question the frightening thought that appears.
They can reach for connection instead of retreating into isolation.
They can speak honestly with their children even when the questions are painful.
They can allow themselves moments of hope without needing to be certain of anything.

These choices seem small, yet they form the structure that holds us when the world feels too heavy. They create a bit of space inside fear. They help the mind find steadiness. They anchor us to life in times that feel unpredictable.

This is the work I teach to children, teenagers, and adults every day. We talk about the space between emotion and response. We practice breathing in ways that settle the body. We name the thoughts that spiral and slowly learn how to interrupt them. These are practical skills, not abstract ideas. They are tools for getting through moments that feel overwhelming.

Communities survive difficult periods through an accumulation of these choices. People breathe. They reach out. They steady one another. They move from one moment to the next until something inside begins to soften and heal.

Eli Sharabi survived 491 days by choosing what he could, one breath at a time. Many of us are doing a quieter version of that now.

We cannot change the events that brought us to this point. We can decide how we meet the next moment and the one after it.

The choices available to us may be small, and they often go unnoticed. They may feel like almost nothing. Yet they matter. They keep us connected to life, to one another, and to the possibility of healing.

Even now, one choice remains.
One breath remains.
One way forward remains, steady and real.