When Old Stories No Longer Work & Being Lost Is Part of the Path

“The universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself, everything that you want you already are.”
– Rumi

It’s been 570 days since hostages were taken into the tunnels of Gaza.
A number that, once distant, now feels etched into my bones.

It has been two weeks since we celebrated Passover but perhaps Passover needs to become an every day celebration.

It’s also been 12 weeks since my mother died.

I’ve done deep emotional work over the years — on myself, with others, in community, in solitude. But nothing truly prepares you for the kind of grief that rearranges your inner furniture. The kind that makes you realize: there’s still more work to do.

Lately, I’ve been questioning myself a lot. With so much pain in the world—some of it utterly incomprehensible—how can I possibly make a difference? What does it mean to show up powerfully when all I want to do is crawl under the covers?

I find myself unable—or maybe unwilling—to keep telling myself the old stories of what “works.” They feel hollow now. As if another veil has lifted, leaving me exposed, bewildered, and strangely… awake. I know I’m in the process of grieving, and questioning myself is part of that process.

And yet, I also know this moment—this feeling of being lost—is not the end. It’s part of the path. It always has been. I believe in karma. This is my karma.

I never felt deeply connected to Passover before. But this year, inspired by a dear friend (you know who you are), I listened to The Paradox of Passover podcast featuring Rachel Goldberg, and saw the story with new eyes. Here is a woman who has endured unimaginable pain—having lost her son Hersh—and yet she continues to inspire. Hersh, just 23 years old, was kidnapped from the Nova music festival on October 7th. He was full of life, music, and promise—and now he is one of the many faces behind the number 555. I encourage you to listen to this podcast. It’s not easy, but it’s so important.
 The Paradox of Passover with Rachel Goldberg

As she speaks about Passover, it becomes clear that the Exodus isn’t just an ancient tale. It’s a personal invitation:

• To recognize the ways we’re still enslaved.
• To notice where we’ve let ourselves stay stuck in our own inner Egypts.
• To ask: What would it take to be free?

And freedom has many layers.
Free to be me.
Free to live in peace.
Free to exist without fear—regardless of sex, race, religion, age, circumstance, environment, or sexual preference.

As a young girl and woman, I endured abuse and misogyny. As a lesbian, I’ve walked through the fire of homophobia. As a German-born Christian in Israel, I faced judgment and criticism. And after I converted, I was told it wasn’t good enough—that it wasn’t right.

I’ve felt the sting of sexism, chauvinism, antisemitism, and countless other -isms designed to divide and diminish—all based on external labels and limiting definitions.

But for me, this conversation goes deeper. It’s not just about injustice—it’s about the fundamental, universal human right to exist, to belong, and to be fully embraced, exactly as I am.

I know the answer is complex. And when I look within, I see how hard it can be for me to fully embrace others—and myself—when I’m triggered or vulnerable.

I live in Israel, and I often struggle with the language. My Hebrew is okay, but not as strong as my English or German. When things get complicated, I need to ask for help—and that triggers old stories from school, ones I thought I had long since healed. This is how it goes, isn’t it? We get triggered, we feel inadequate, and sometimes—consciously or not—we take it out on others. We’re cranky. We pick fights. Not everyone, not always. But often enough.

For years, I’ve coached and supported others (and myself) in releasing the bondage of old suffering—limiting beliefs, inherited trauma, patterns that keep us stuck. I love this work. I’ve felt so called to it. And yet these days, I feel those old patterns rising again. I’m triggered by unfinished business, by the unbearable cruelty humans inflict on one another, by the collective ache that feels bottomless. It’s like a bad dream. But it’s not. It’s real.

There’s a part of me that wants to look away. To shield myself from the weight of it all. But something quieter, deeper, steadier, whispers:
Don’t turn away. Not now. This matters.

So here I am. Sitting in the heartbreak. Refusing to numb out. Choosing to witness, and to ask:
How do I want to respond?

I don’t have all the answers—but as I write this, some clarity begins to surface.
What I do have is my presence. My integrity. My commitment to truth and healing.
I’m willing to keep going. To keep uncovering the places in me where the work still lives.
I don’t give up easily.

And I will continue to support others in freeing themselves from their own bondage. I can’t give up now. I won’t. This is important work. And I encourage you to do the same.

Times are difficult. All over the world, amazing people like you are suffering, being triggered, and challenged in deep ways. And still—you continue. You show up. You breathe. You care.

Please keep going, however you can. Do your work. Inspire others to do theirs.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re ready too—ready to face your own bondage, your own turning point, your own path to freedom.