When the world falls apart, finding emotional stability is its own quiet victory

What does resilience look like when your country is at war, your home is not your own, and your meticulously planned daily routine ceases to exist? For me, it looks like surviving meltdowns and staying functional through my kid’s tantrums. It looks like chaos outside and a strange, surprising steadiness within. This is not a guide or a success story. It’s simply what survival looks like for me, right now.

A Shift in Definition

I read something in the book The Practice by Seth Godin (affiliate link) that stuck with me: a problem is something you can solve. If you can’t solve it, it’s just a situation. And this is exactly the case: just a stressful situation that we’re facing.

I recently relocated with my daughter from Brooklyn to Tel Aviv, straight into the peak season of the ongoing conflict in the Middle East. After a year of starting over in my new-old country, experiencing last month’s airstrike from Iran was terrifying. But it caught me at a curious time: The first few months of getting accustomed to new anxiety meds. Not the best “set and setting” to test out new meds, but it was interesting to examine how helpful these meds are during an objectively stressful time.

A few weeks before the war, I questioned if the meds were even working well enough. I was considering possibly increasing the dose, and had booked a doctor’s appointment — but it was canceled. So I continued at the same dose, and I’ve been feeling… okay.

During these 12 days of war, I’ve found myself appreciating the effects of the meds. It wasn’t fun dealing with so many uncertainties, but still, I can recognize the difference the medication is making.

When the war broke out, I had a few complete meltdowns: crying, anxiety, fear. But honestly, that feels like the appropriate response. Our lives were hijacked again. In the middle of rebuilding my life, I’m forced to start surviving all over again. And still, somehow, I’m coping. It’s relieving.

The Tension Builds

Imagine the stressors piling up: My routine is utterly destroyed. Schools closed. My 8-year-old is heavily dependent on me emotionally. I can’t work. No Gym. Everyone is tired and cranky, having to wake up multiple times a night to seek shelter. On top of all that, there’s this heat wave. It’s relentless. Even at night, just walking outside is draining. Running to shelter, drenched in sweat, has become routine.

Public shelter in Tel Aviv (picture by the author)

I decided to stay the nights at my parents’ place for the sake of a closer and less crowded shelter. It brings some relief but I’m no longer in my own space. I don’t have my things. I miss my bed, my safe zone. My whole life is on hold.

And with every siren, every time we go into the shelter, there’s a wave of dread. Will our building be standing? Will our neighborhood still exist? Will we lose everything? Will the cats be okay?

A note on our door to save our cats in case of emergency (picture by author)

Vision Blurred, Future Uncertain

So many stressors stack up. I fear for our lives, our belongings, and our future. I fear what’s coming months and years from now. Is there hope living in this country?

Even before this war, living here was tough: Feeling like a persecuted minority in my own country, financial strain and inflation, the government going bananas. As a self-employed woman, it feels like the system is built to keep us from thriving. Now, it’ll be even worse.

It feels impossible to rebuild a fulfilling, good life when the world keeps derailing you. And yet, we haven’t been hit directly. We’re all safe, the cats are fine, and our neighborhood is about 80% whole. We can sleep the night again. We can take a bath, get a little high. Even so, the emotional toll is massive. My daughter still jumps at every sound. So do I. There’s no space to just be without being on edge. There’s a sense of hopelessness in the air. People are tired.

Another 3AM panic wake up call (picture by author)

The Real Impact of the Medication

The medication is helping. I can think. I can function. I can stay present. One night, my daughter had a huge meltdown. Two hours of shouting. It was intense. Usually, that would have drained me completely. I’d be emotionally wrecked. But not this time. I was tired, yes, overstimulated,but not devastated. I recuperated and carried on. That’s new.

I’m not falling apart. I’m handling it. I’m floating. Not aloof, not unaware, but gliding. I’m not ignoring the situation, I’m just not overly reacting. I accept it, it’s a situation, not a problem to solve. I see it all, but I don’t crumble.

For now, it’s one day at a time. I hope we come out of this okay.