When the World Doesn’t Feel Safe, Let It Out

Living with the Unbearable

There are no words big enough for the sound of sirens, the shock of impact, the emptiness of an empty chair. When you live in a war zone, survival becomes your full-time job. Your body doesn’t ask for permission—it adapts. It tightens. It prepares. It numbs.

But here’s the truth no one tells you:

Survival is not the same as living.

You may still be breathing, but part of you hasn’t exhaled in weeks—or years. You may still be moving, but part of you is frozen, stuck in the moment you couldn’t stop, the goodbye you didn’t get to say, the terror that still lives under your skin.

You are not weak for trembling. You are not broken for being afraid. Your body is responding to danger—seen and unseen.

And if you’re reading this in Israel—or anywhere trauma strikes civilians like a storm you can’t hide from—know this: your pain is not just valid. It’s sacred. And your healing matters.

You Were Not Made for War

We were not made to see our homes shattered, our children in bomb shelters, our friends become headlines. We were made for connection. For safety. For love.

When the world outside turns violent, your body protects you. It shuts down certain feelings. It reroutes your nervous system. It tells you, “Just keep going.”

But trauma doesn’t end when the rockets stop.

It lingers—in dreams, in your chest, in the quiet moments when you expect to feel peace and instead feel nothing at all.

And eventually, something inside you whispers:

“I can’t hold this anymore.”

That whisper is not weakness. It’s an invitation.

Letting It Out—In Pieces

You may not be able to scream right now.

You may be surrounded by children. Or rubble. Or just silence so thick it swallows your voice.

That’s okay.

Letting it out doesn’t have to be loud.

It can begin with this:

• A slow breath you let finish.

• A tear you don’t wipe away.

• A prayer spoken not for answers, but for release.

Try This: The Voice That Survived

Tonight, if it’s safe, find a private space.

Take out a piece of paper. Write this sentence at the top:

The part of me that made it through wants to say…

And then write. Don’t censor. Don’t correct. Let that part of you speak. The one who kept going. The one who held your child. The one who answered the phone when the worst news came.

That voice matters. That voice is still here.

You Are Not Alone

In Let It Out, we say often: “The group is the medicine.”

You may not have a group right now.

But please believe this: somewhere, someone else is feeling what you’re feeling.

Somewhere, someone else is weeping for the same reason.
Somewhere, someone else is surviving the same ache.

Let that comfort you.

Even if you’re reading this in a shelter, or alone in your room, or halfway between numb and despair—your pain is real. And so is your capacity to heal.

If All You Do Is Breathe…

Then that’s enough today.

You don’t need to be strong right now. You need to be honest.

If you’re angry—be angry.
If you’re terrified—be terrified.
If you’re numb—honor the numbness.

But don’t silence yourself out of habit. Don’t swallow the truth because you think no one can handle it.

You deserve to be heard.

You deserve to heal.

Even in war, especially in war—you deserve to feel.

For readers in Israel: This week, you can receive a complimentary copy of Seth Eisenberg’s new book, Let It Out, by visiting www.pairs4me.com/letitout.