Sitting with Death
This week, I sat with Death—again and again.
As a therapist, as a teacher, and as the Head of EmotionAid®, an organization dedicated to preventing burnout and trauma, I found myself repeatedly entering its silent terrain.
Sitting with Death is not merely an encounter—it is crossing a threshold into a territory few dare to dwell in. David Grossman captures this exquisitely:
“If death means being exiled to an island of grief, this highly silent territory is only accessible through highly nuanced language.”
A place where words must be few enough to hold silence, and silence deep enough to hold grief.
In our war-torn country, Life and Death have become intimately entangled.
As a therapist, I sat with a family mourning several members—adults and children. Together, we searched for the faint thread of life that still pulses within loss. The act of continuing, of choosing to go on, is not denial—it is a courageous expression of vitality. In the face of despair, even the smallest step forward is a reclamation of Life.
As a teacher, I supported one of our therapy students working on a harrowing case: a kibbutz devastated by October 7th, bodies unburied, best friends lost. What remained was a heavy residue of guilt—survivor guilt, moral guilt, systemic guilt. And again, David Grossman offers language where there is almost none:
“He is dead, / He is / Dead. But / His death, / His death / Is not / Dead.”
This is not ordinary grief. It is traumatic grief, laced with collective trauma and saturated in moral injury—a condition resembling PTSD, but rooted in betrayal, violation of values, and the unbearable burden of what could not be prevented.
Turning trauma into language—mapping this inner island of sorrow—requires more than therapeutic skill. It requires deep listening, slowing down time, welcoming silence, tolerating irony, and inviting the heart to speak. It calls for reverence. For the Life inside Death.
As the Head of EmotionAid®, I was interviewed this week about the rising number of soldiers who have died by suicide. These are not just deaths; they are ruptures in our moral and societal fabric. When young people are exposed to such concentrated death and terror—as on and after October 7th—choosing to live becomes a radical act. Our mental health system, our army, and our communities are not yet equipped to hold this depth of suffering. Much has been done. Far more must be imagined, built, and sustained.
And yet, amid this shadowed landscape, there is still Life.
Life in the breath of the grieving mother who rocks herself gently—and still finds the strength to inspire others.
Life in the quiet nod of a student who finally finds words.
Life in the soldier who, despite everything, asks for help.
Life in us, who choose to stay present—with each other, with pain, and with hope.
May we continue to find the courage to walk this path.
To hold silence with compassion.
To speak with truth and tenderness.
To honor, fiercely, the fragile and persistent pulse of Life—
וברכת בחיים—the Life-affirming DNA of the Jewish people.
