I grew up in a house filled with the presence of war. Not war itself, but its echoes. Memories that were rarely spoken yet lived everywhere, in the silences, in sudden changes of mood, in the quiet weight that settled into the rooms. As a child, I did not fully understand what I was sensing, but I learned to move carefully around it. Without realizing it, I learned to make myself smaller around what already felt too heavy. I learned to be quiet where quiet was needed and not to take too much...

Three years ago, I felt pressure in my chest, and I truly thought I was dying. I remember everything about that day: the hour, the light, what I was wearing, where I was standing, who I called first, and what I did in the hours that followed. It became clear, very quickly, that what I was experiencing was a panic attack, an anxiety eruption, sudden, terrifying, disorienting. Since that moment, anxiety has entered my life as something that stays. Not always loudly, not always visibly, but...

Lately, I find myself thinking a lot about time. About sadness. About joy. About my ability to hold both ends of the same rope and keep moving. The days keep passing. College visits are being planned. February has already begun. There are mornings when the snow starts to melt and the temperature rises just enough to remind me that nothing stays frozen forever. Uri is traveling to Spain. Itay is visiting colleges. Assaf walks the streets of Brooklyn as if he is no longer the little boy he was,...