I suppose that in my time on earth, there are very few subjects I feel qualified to speak about. The Beatles’ White Album, perhaps. The finer subtleties of backpacking. The Yankees’ “Core Four”, and then, a bit less comfortably, trauma and its subsequent healing.

It’s always been there, shaping my choices. And at times, my poor decision-making. Certainly, in my formative years, and still now.

When did this journey begin? Nearly five years ago? Or was it when I was twelve years old, too young, experiencing a depth of pain I’ve rarely disclosed?

When I studied psychoanalytic theory, I was told about the belief that the very act of being born is traumatic in itself: from the safe bubble of comfort to the injury of the outside world, a harsh, unforgiving light. I used to trace it back further, before I was even here at all. To family wounds. Generational trauma. The pain of loss. Those were all stories I told myself at one point or another. But none of them serve me today.

Still, I don’t claim to have answers or a recipe for post-traumatic growth. If I can claim any degree, it’s likely a master’s in self-righteousness. So I believe everyone’s journey is individual – their own.

I do know this: I tried everything. Everything, in pursuit of the relief I was after my whole life, constantly chasing this unattainable sense of happiness. It was doctors and psychologists, artwork, and NLP. It was self-sabotage and destructive relationships. It was illusions of grandeur and a nonexistent sense of worth.

The injuries I caused in the name of my pain were immense.

For me, it came down to one simple truth: I was incapable of feeling it, managing it, handling it. This thing that had been consuming me whole. It was three, five, ten years later, and I was still there – still a child.

So to me, the healing process couldn’t look like anything else but rooting it out. And that took work. Reflection. All those fun things I never wanted to do. I wanted freedom, relief, to be forgiven and forgive, and most importantly, I wanted it to come easily. To be bestowed upon me.

So for me, in the end, it wasn’t mystical retreats or rituals in the mountains, though my version was indulgent in its own way. After a year of crying and journaling, of seeing where I had been selfish, here I had been afraid. After acceptance and therapy, reconciliation and severed hearts –  I got on a plane, alone with a backpack and flew for 18 hours, all the way to Costa Rica.

My Spotify playlist was carefully curated for the journey, a soundtrack reflecting my state of mind: from Arik Einstein’s wistful nostalgia to Chava Alberstein’s deep melodies. From Paul Simon’s cheeky poetry in “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,” to the other famous Paul, always reigning supreme.

Tucked inside my bag was an empty journal, waiting to be filled, as well as a well–worn Stephen King short story, “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption,” chosen for its familiarity and lightweight nature. A small Tehillim. And Etty Hillesum’s diary, a book that became something of a Bible for anyone who searched, and in turn, hoped to be found.

I was armed with words, stories, and rituals. Small anchors. But nothing could have prepared me for what it would feel like to cross the ocean. I thought I was going to die. The first few weeks were a haze, until I jumped into bioluminescent-infested waters. Oh. Is this what it feels like to be alive?

And so yes, outer circumstances surely help. As my best friend once told me: It’s better to cry in Costa Rica than in Herzliya. And boy, did I cry.
For a year straight, in Israel. Tears that cleanse.

I cried in Costa Rica, in fear, and then in awe.
I cried in Rome, in happiness and disbelief.
I cried in Spain, in heartache and shattered pieces.
I cried in New York, when I fulfilled a promise to my childhood self.
I cried in Stockholm, with something I still can’t describe.
Because here, the sun doesn’t set. And I was always chasing an eternal summer.

And while the rockets are hitting Tel Aviv, and I’m sitting in Södermalm, another illusion of safety is shattered, a feeling of powerlessness once again taking hold, and yet , I still consider myself the luckiest person in the world. And it’s not because of Stockholm, or how beautiful it is. I’ve often felt empty in high mountain peaks, and miserable in cobblestone streets. It’s the quiet sense of authenticity, to myself, to my feelings, and to God.

Am I here to proselytize? God, no. I’m perfectly happy with my little intimate corner of the universe, where I have a relationship with God as I perceive Him. Because nothing else worked. From cacao ceremonies to a change of scenery. From EMDR to dangerous unravelings.

I had to look at myself. Long and hard.

Root out the things that were holding me back – the things I never wanted to remember. Surround myself with really good people. Truly, the best people to walk with me on this path. And agree that I don’t know everything. Perhaps I know nothing. And that maybe something out there, bigger than my own little, naked, afraid self, can help me face life.

It’s a conscious choice. Every single day. And it’s never, ever linear.

It’s walking through the days when the weight on my chest is just too much. When all I can remember are long forgotten aches, people who are no longer here. It’s being embarrassed, and drowning in the uncertain, breathing in the unknown.

It’s the quiet assurance that something unfathomable has taken root within me, and the facts of it remain a mystery to me. Because I had given up, time and time again. And those around me had given up as well. I was not one for healing and joy.

Some people, I thought, are meant for ruin. 

And I’m not sure, nor am I worthy, of having been rebuilt. 

But I try. 

And I welcome it.

 With all its complexities.

I reckon we all must heal from something. This ongoing war and the horrors we can no longer unsee. The histories we can’t escape. Loving again after the sweetest of misery. That very first heartbreak. The things we can’t say aloud. The things that warp us, and, if we’re very lucky, shape us again. All part of this unending journey of acceptance, pain, and healing.