We Roar Like Lions, But We Bleed Inside

A Nation Rising and Roaring Like a Lion…

But we are also a nation that is traumatized and broken.

We were different people on October 6 than we were on October 7. And now we are different again since the day before Israel struck Iran. This isn’t a metaphor. We are fundamentally, irreversibly different.

In the past week alone, we’ve spent countless hours in bomb shelters. We’ve been jolted awake, over and over, by alerts and sirens from Homefront Command. Pre-alerts. Warnings. Red alerts. It has become the soundtrack of daily life. We’ve cut conversations short with loved ones because a siren screamed, and the only thing that mattered in that moment was grabbing our kids and racing to shelter.

Kids taking selfies with the Iron Done shooting down a rocket in the distance.

To be clear, though it has become routine for us and for our children, there is absolutely nothing normal about saying the sentence:
“I’m gathering my family and heading to a bomb shelter because ballistic missiles are headed our way.”

That sentence should never exist in the vocabulary of any human being. And yet, here we are.

We Have Lost Our Innocence

This isn’t just about the past week. It’s been two years of relentless trauma. It started long before October 7, but that day cracked something in our collective spirit. It was a before-and-after moment, and nothing has been the same since.

We mourn. Every soldier, every civilian, every life taken by rocket, gunfire, or terror. But with every tragedy, something dangerous has crept in. Numbness. We still feel pain, but we’ve grown used to it. We expect it. And that expectation is a scar we all carry.

Our Young Adults Have Seen Too Much

What should have been college years, a time of growth, mistakes, parties, and freedom, has instead been replaced by war. Our 18 to 21-year-olds have witnessed more death and destruction than anyone ever should. They’ve been shot at. They’ve lost friends. They’ve held the hands of the wounded. They’ve buried friends.

They are experts now. Not in engineering or literature, but in the sound of sirens.
They know the difference between an Iron Dome interception and an incoming missile.
They’ve learned to judge where a rocket is coming from based on the kind of boom they hear.

And Our Younger Children? They Aren’t Innocent Either

They know how to find the nearest safe room, no matter where they are.
They know how long they have to get there.
They know which siren means what.
They flinch when they hear a car backfire or a loud bang, because for them it could mean danger.

They should be playing and laughing and dreaming. Instead, they are growing up under the constant shadow of war. We used to teach them how to tie their shoes and ride a bike. Now we teach them how to run for cover.

And The Parents? We Don’t Sleep

We lie in bed at night, half-dressed and ready to run, waiting for the next alert.
We check our phones obsessively, asking where are the kids, did they check in, are they safe.
We wear calm faces for our little ones while terror coils inside our stomachs.
We smile at school pickups and during work meetings, and then cry alone when no one is watching.

This is our life now. But do not be fooled by the routines. We are not okay.

This Isn’t Who We Were. And It’s Not Who We Want to Be

We are resilient. We are brave. We are proud.
But we are also exhausted. We are grieving. We are afraid.
And most painfully, we are changed.

Our roar as a nation hasn’t quieted. But behind it is a cry that grows louder with every siren.

We are fighting to hold on to hope. To love. To anything that feels like peace.
And in the silence between alerts, we still dare to dream of a day when our children will never again need to know where the nearest bomb shelter is.

A day when we will roar — not out of pain or defiance — but because we are finally free to live.

Am Yisrael Chai. But oh, how we ache.