In the aftermath of twelve harrowing days of war, many voices encourage us to be gentle with ourselves, to ease slowly back into routine. But perhaps that isn’t the point at all.

As a people — Am Yisrael — we witnessed nissim. The entire world saw them. The numbers, the outcomes, they defy logic. An enemy with an arsenal nearly matching our entire country, one that could have crushed us in an instant, did not.

Our lives were shaken: schools shuttered, travel paralyzed, families huddled in safe rooms. Plans were upended without warning. But is the message of those days simply to pick up where we left off?

It is like a woman who endures a long, high-risk pregnancy. There are sleepless nights, frightening medical opinions, whispered tefillos. Then, she delivers a healthy child. Should her first priority be to restock the fridge, catch up on emails, and get back to the office?

She didn’t go through all that to return to her old routine. She went through it to become something else — a mother, a nurturer, a person transformed by love and hope.

Who gets married and then rushes home without the bride? Who wins the lottery and stresses about clocking in on Monday morning?

We shouldn’t either.

The whole point isn’t to go back. It is to live differently because of what has changed.

During the war, we each felt moments of awe, moments of breath-stopping gratitude. We remembered what mattered most: family, values, priorities, our preciousness before Hashem, the sense of being seen and held as the world watched.

I stood with my family on the porch, gazing into the night sky over the dark valley between Tzfat and Tiveria. Sirens had not reached our area, but in the distance, many millions of dollars of enemy weapons burst midair, lighting up the Shabbos night.

A question seemed to hang in the heavens: do we deserve to exist, to live, to build families and raise future generations in our land?

And with every flaming interception, the answer thundered across the sky: Yes. They are Mine. YES! They will live. YES!

My heart swelled and my eyes overflowed. Our Father — Avinu — wants us here, safe and whole.

Od Avinu Chai.

Those explosions were not on our homes, but in defense of our homes. They were for me, for my family, for all of us.

In those days, we gave birth not to a child, but to a new awareness. Clarity. Connection. A sense of our own immeasurable worth.

Let’s not trade that revelation for routine. Pause. Let it settle.

What were your moments of wonder? Of gratitude? Of feeling protected? Are you allowing them to truly land?

Your job, your travel, your meetings will all wait. Pause a bit longer.

Write. Sing. Daven. Let the world rush back to normal — but you, hold the baby.

The baby is your sense of wonder, your rediscovered clarity. She needs you to nurture her.

Not to go back.

But to grow forward.

Shalvi Waldman M.Sc.
www.frumtherapist.co.il
052-424-2234

(YWN World Headquarters – NYC)