Not sure, but I’m ready to part with it…

A few months ago, during the last iteration of a long relationship that kept coming back like bad breath, I realized something. After years together, he still didn’t really know me, while I remained endlessly curious about him. So I asked, “What are you curious about me?” He cut right to the core: “How are you so resilient?”

I wanted to cry and scream. Of all the things he could have said, this was his choice? Do you know how much is packed into that one question? How many statements? I simply replied, “What choice do I have?” He didn’t get it—that was actually the answer. Do you really believe resilience is a choice? What is the alternative? Disappearing? Falling apart? Disintegrating into nothing? I said that to him plainly, but I could see in his admiring eyes that he didn’t get it. It was not something he could touch, in both of its meanings—not something he could grasp, and not something he could ever break, no matter how much he tried. There is nothing to admire. Who wants to be resilient? It means, by definition, that you have faced relentless adversity.

Do you think anyone in their right mind chooses to be a single mother of three with no support? Do you think anyone whimsically signs up for 50-hour workweeks with a 64-mile commute each way? Do you think this is some sort of leisurely, empowering lifestyle to celebrate? If even for one second you believe that, let me put your head back on for you. Yes, I made those choices, and in them, I find joy and meaning. But those choices carve out a life of exhaustion so deep that you don’t even recognize it anymore. You learn to function on fumes—not coffee, because too much caffeine disrupts sleep, and sleep is sacred. You know why? Because I have to keep my eyes open for that 64-mile commute.

Years ago, when we moved here, I decided to enroll my youngest daughter in the local preschool instead of the Jewish preschool 40 minutes away. My daughter is fierce—always has been. At age two, she was fully potty trained—not because of anything I did. One day, she simply declared, “I’m done with diapers.” I said, “Okay, but it’s okay to change your mind or have accidents.” She didn’t. Not even once. That night, I tried to put a night diaper on her, but she refused. “I told you I was done,” she said. I braced myself for wet sheets and disrupted sleep, but she made it through the night, never having an accident. Ever. That’s just who she is—the most determined person I’ve ever met. So, I was thrilled to take her to her beautiful new preschool, tiny backpack and lunchbox in tow. That first day, she beamed with pride. But then—red flag #1—the teacher was too busy prepping to greet the kids. Really? You can’t even acknowledge a child who is about to separate from their parent for the first time? Still, my daughter managed well the first week. But the second week, another child pushed her, and the teachers did nothing. I went in to speak to the director. (What else? I am a Keren, after all—yes, not spelled right, but still, I like to speak to managers.) Her response? “At our school, we teach resilience.” My daughter never went back.

What is this, Holocaust preparation? What the actual fuck? Why do we need to teach toddlers resilience? What about its healthier counterparts—independence and confidence? Don’t they understand that real resilience comes from believing in yourself when you actually need it? You don’t have to beat a child down to instill it. Resilience isn’t a badge of honor—it’s a survival mechanism. And frankly, I’d rather my daughter never have to use it.

And here is the real answer to anyone still wondering. Have you ever been reduced to nothing? I mean, actually, nothing? Perhaps just to your next breath, that one you are trying to take. Just the ability to inhale, to let that flow of air back into your lungs and know that life is going to remain, just for one more breath? Have you? Can you imagine what it is like? The terror? The focus? Do you know what it is like to look death in the eye? But to be so focused on life that you don’t even realize you are at death’s door? Do you? If not, then fuck you—take this gift of mine, resilience, and everything that comes with it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Take it—the pain, the terror, and the strength. Take it. I beg of you, take it and never give it back to me.

Take a breath. Yes, you. This is not our last breath together… it is just one moment in time. And before you know it, you catch your breath. That is resilience. That tiny hope, the one that comes with every breath, with every step, every tiny step of the walking dead. Every step, even as your eyes are laden with sand, because you are being buried alive. Even then, one more step, one more breath. That sun, it will come up, and as it does, my heart will be light again. That is resilience.

I am ready for it to wash away… to go bye-bye. No, not because I want to disappear. No, I have three kids, for the love of God. But because I want to just be. Just be, just walk—in the sun, in the rain, under the rainbow—just walk, with all of you. Hold my head up, and just walk. One breath, one step, without thinking. Just dance my life with a smile.

The other day, something happened to me. My dad came over. We had a big plan, me and my dad. I was supposed to bond with him. To go away with his guitar, sing songs together, and maybe even write a song together. That was the plan. I wanted to chat with him, ask all the curious questions I was wondering about. I wanted to laugh with him at all his clever jokes. I wanted to listen to all his stories—the ones I heard and the ones I memorized. All of that. But… as life will have it, my ex-husband, after not having a steady job for the past six years and not willing to redefine what a ‘job’ means, finally lost his house. What does that mean? All the things you imagine, and a few you don’t, I guarantee it. It means heartbroken kids. It means the scariest thoughts you can ever think. It means a deep sadness you cannot imagine. It means rage and indignation. It means that, at once, I have so many of my own feelings, I have no idea how to hold the ones of my kids. And fuck, are they heavy…

So, do you think I was able to go away and have the time of my life with my dad? No, of course not.

But my dad noticed. He changed my oil. And that felt like a breath—a fresh breath of air. He noticed. He took care of it, and I didn’t need to do anything. Not even think about it…

That night we went to a show, it was raining so hard, and I was exhausted, just bone tired. We picked my oldest from college and went on a night on the town. The town of San Francisco, this tiny little theater in what I believe might be Chinatown, where I pulled up just in time to let everyone out of the car. My dad hates to be late, and being just on time nearly cut the air in the car. But the show with the acrobats who can also sing and act was nothing short of magic. Seeing my dad and my three kids sitting in a row, with some nice people around, in the hip SF atmosphere, that felt so great.

The next day I got up at the usual 5, and by 6 AM I was on the dark road of the early morning commute, where the sun follows me in waking up on the road, me with a cup of coffee, and her? With happiness? Who knows.

When I got home, it was already darkening again, and it was time for Shabbat. It was me, my dad, and my little one. Part of the grand plan for the weekend was for me and my dad to cook together—he’s recently taken an interest in cooking, which is very adorable. I thought it would be great to do that together… but on this evening, we didn’t even have the energy to joke about it. I made dinner, I lit the Shabbat candles, he blessed the wine, and we broke bread. As I set dinner on the table, I tried my best, but I was so fucking tired. Just done. Just bone dry.

I really wanted to stay and chat, and do all the things we imagined, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me—not even one bite. Not even to sit there and smell the food. Nothing. My dad looked at me with such worry and said, “Go rest right now.” I barely made it the few steps to the couch. One step, one more, and then—I forgot. My body just gave out. I collapsed.

As I lay there, I could hear my dad say, “Just rest, I got this. Of course, you’re exhausted.” And just like that, my dad was there. I felt so seen that for a few moments, I let go… and you know what I did? I rested. For real.

Fuck resilience in the face. It was so nice to just let go. I may not have had the trip I hoped for with my dad, but what he gave me was a gift like no other—he let me just be.