The day everything changed: Pain, healing, hope

Tuesday, November 19, 2024, 18 Cheshvan, is a date that marks a before and after for our family. It’s the day our lives changed forever, when our youngest son was critically wounded in Lebanon. We’ve been on a long and winding road. Now that we’re home and life has slowed down, we finally have time to reflect on everything we’ve been through.

In some ways, it still feels surreal, like we’ve stepped into a different world, one that demands we carry invisible weight every single day.

Our son appears fine on the outside. That’s what people see — a strong young man walking through the world with quiet determination. But the truth is more complicated. His wounds are internal — both physical and emotional. This past week was especially difficult. As Yom Hazikaron approached, so did the memories, the pain, the loss. Our son and three of his friends were all wounded together. Their injuries were severe, and for a time, each of them was teetering between life and death. One of their friends lost his life.

They went through some of the toughest moments of their lives together, and that kind of experience creates a lasting bond, one that now also carries the weight of grief. This year, as the nation remembered its fallen, they leaned on each other for support. But even in that connection, there’s a deep undercurrent of survivor’s guilt, a question that never fully fades: Why him and not me?

Our son is fortunate in some ways. He has us, his family. He has those three friends who understand what he’s been through and who can support one another. But not all wounded soldiers have that kind of network. Some are alone. There are men and women like our son whose injuries are invisible — brain trauma, internal damage, emotional wounds — so their pain is harder to recognize.

The internal injuries our son sustained have taken a tremendous toll on his body. His systems no longer function as they once did. He lives with constant reminders that things are no longer the same. And then there are the emotional scars, the ones that don’t show up on scans or reports, but appear in sleepless nights, sudden silences, and the heaviness behind his eyes.

When people see our son — walking, talking, even smiling — they assume he’s fine. But he’s not. He’s surviving. He’s rebuilding. That smile may be genuine in the moment, but it doesn’t erase the pain beneath it. Healing is a long, slow journey. There are no shortcuts. No switch you can flip to return to “normal.”

So I ask you, don’t assume. Don’t measure someone’s pain by what you can see. Just because someone looks okay doesn’t mean they are. Life is different now for our son, for us, and for all families of wounded soldiers. There is no going back. But there is moving forward, one step at a time with honesty, with compassion, and with the hope that people will begin to truly see what lies beneath the surface.

We just completed the tractate Makkot as part of the Daf Yomi cycle. The tractate ends with a poignant story. Rabbi Akiva stood among the ruins of the Beit HaMikdash. While the other Rabbis wept, Rabbi Akiva laughed, not because he didn’t feel the pain, but because he could see beyond it. He believed that just as the prophecy of destruction had come true, so too would the promise of rebuilding. His laughter was a form of hope, a quiet strength that looked past what was broken and held onto what could be. The tractate ends with the words: עֲקִיבָא נִיחַמְתָּנוּ, עֲקִיבָא נִיחַמְתָּנוּ — Akiva, you have comforted us; Akiva, you have comforted us.

Our son and his friends remind me of that. They walk through the ruins of their old lives carrying wounds we cannot always see. But they keep going. They support one another. They laugh, even when it hurts. That kind of strength, the strength to keep moving, to believe in a future that looks nothing like the past, is what carries them forward.

Like Rabbi Akiva, they choose to believe that something good still lies ahead. They do not view themselves as heroes, just as young people doing what they believe is right, helping to secure peace and bring our hostages home.