When I was about 12 — I think — I was sitting with my brother on my bed in Savyon. It was a wooden frame of my tiny childhood bed, and we were sitting side by side — me on the right, him on the left, with an atlas sprawled open between us.

I had just learned about maps in school, and we were both excited for me to sit there and tell him how to read one: the key, the symbols, all of it.

He was asking me questions, and we were both just in it — enjoying ourselves in that moment of pure exchange.

I looked up, you know, just kind of maybe fixing my hair, that little moment when you lift your eyes from what you’re doing. Probably didn’t even register — it was that quick.

Except that my micro-moment was weird. As I lifted my eyes to the window of my room — it’s just a few meters away from me, one on my left and one directly in front — I saw the bushes in the window, you know, the way they brush from side to side. I looked back down at the atlas because, in that split second, I thought nothing of it.

But then, my body froze. I registered it: I don’t have bushes next to the window.

What the fuck was that?

Before my brain could scream don’t look up, I saw him. A face, staring right back at me.

My face was halfway between looking straight up and looking at the atlas below us. But I was stuck. Literally. My body frozen in place. That fear from two seconds ago, when I realized it wasn’t bushes, was now materialized right in front of me. I couldn’t move.

I realized I could make a sound, so I said, “Liron, there’s somebody at the window.”

There’s a flicker in him as he’s trying to figure out what’s happening. I’m clearly not joking — even though joking is usually our thing.

In a split second, like only my brother can do, helooksupseestheguyandrunsoutthedoor.

What? You don’t get it? Right. It was like a streak to my frozen self. One second, I said it, and the next, he looked up, saw the guy, and ran out.

He stops at the door, looks at me, and realizes I’m still frozen.

He grabs my hand, and suddenly, I’m running with him.

I don’t remember the next few minutes. My brother was the one functioning. Not me. I don’t remember running. That memory is gone, the moment my brother took my hand and we ran.

We were running from the furthest room in the house to the front, where the hall was. Our whole house was made of windows by the way — no wall in the living room, just glass. We got to the phone. You know the white dial phone. It was right at the front, next to that door.

All of a sudden, there was no protection. Our whole house was see-through.

In moments like that — standing in front of that white dial phone, with all your phone numbers memorized in a brain that’s hardly functioning — who you gonna call? Is the song playing in your head? No, it wasn’t Ghostbusters. Though it was as good as seeing a ghost.

When push comes to shove, who is your gut going to call? The person who’s most likely to be there. That’s who. Why? Because when you’re under so much pressure, and you feel your life is at risk, yes — that’s what a face in the window does to you — your mind no longer has control, and something else takes over. What is it? Some animal instinct — I have no idea.

In that moment, I said, call Eran — my father’s youngest brother, who’s just 8 years older than me, making him a soldier at the time. Do you have any idea what a bad idea it is to call a soldier? He’s probably not home.

And yet, that’s the person. So we called him. And he picked up right away. He lived about 30 minutes away from us — another logical bad choice. But he answered right away, and I don’t even know how we communicated what had happened through our sheer panic.

He said, “Don’t move.”

And I swear, he was there within 10 minutes.

We stayed together in the living room, me and my brother holding each other. He came — tall, my uncle. He took a glance at us little ones, said, “Wait right here,” and walked around our property.

When he came back, we were able to finally exhale.

It was my neighbor’s guest from out of town who decided to look into our window. That is, find a hole in the fence between our two houses. I had never even seen that neighbor before — that’s how secluded we were.

He found a hole in the fence, came into our property, and stood there, staring at two kids.

Fuck, even as I write this, I can still see that face with the glasses, staring right back at me.

My neighbor apologized, of course, but that day something special happened. I knew that my uncle was there. For real. The second he heard panic in our words, he was there like lightning. And he didn’t say, “Are you sure? Where is your mom?” — all the things adults would have said. He was just there. Flesh and blood. And the second he stepped in, we knew we were safe.

He showed up that day. Like he showed up so many other days. A surprise visit on Friday afternoon. “Hey, you two, get in my car.” Why? No questions, just come.

Do you know how exciting it is as a kid to go on a fucking adventure with someone who saved you? Someone you trust in your bones? It’s pure magic. You get in the car, and you just know good things are coming.

Once, he pulled up with his tiny little black Fiat with red leather (I think) and said, “Get in.” Me and my brother were looking at each other, half laughing, half running toward the car in our hearts, while walking suspiciously on the outside, playfully with one another.

He took us to see Inner Space with Martin Short and Meg Ryan — remember that ‘80s movie? In Hebrew, back then, they had the worst translations for movies. But this one wasn’t bad. It was called “Masa Pnima” — or Journey Inwards. He loved sci-fi, my uncle, and he took us to share this great afternoon together.

We loved every moment of it, me and my brother — spending time with our uncle. I can’t speak for my brother, of course, but I remember those as magical moments of my childhood.

Lately, this movie has been playing in my mind, and of course, bringing with it these wonderful childhood memories.

The other day, I noticed something. As I wrap up this chapter of my life, I’ve been taking an almost daily walk to the park near me. Where my neighborhood meets the park, there’s a little downhill slope, and you’re on the trail. Just down a few steps, under a huge oak tree, and by a little stream, there’s a bench. It’s the most magnificent thing.

As you lie down on the bench, just enough of the sun shines through the tree, heating your face just enough to warm it in that deliciousness, and just obscured enough to make you able to stare right at the sky. And as I lie there in the sun, looking at one of the branches that has leaves in a semi-circle, the blue sky is just perfect from between them.

I like to lie there and just breathe.

Yes, I used to think that was totally boring, this breathing thing. How interesting can it possibly be? Fuck, it is pretty fucking good.

Are you in for a little journey inwards? That is my journey inwards through the breath.

You know that I always have to play with words, right? What can I do? That’s the way they play with me in my head. So…

I noticed that not all breaths are created equal. As I lie there, looking at the sky, I ask myself: where do I feel my breath? Have you ever asked yourself this question? I’m serious. I didn’t start asking this until recently. And the answer is not obvious, except that it is… all you have to do is tune in to your body. Is it the nose? Breathe in, can you feel the flow of air inside the cavity of your nostrils? Is this where you felt the breath first? That’s not usually mine.

Sometimes, I feel it in the area right where my ribs meet, you know, at the top middle of your body. But then, as I notice that this is where I feel it, I wonder to myself: do I feel it from the inside or outside of my body? Can I follow my breath, from my nostrils all the way to the top of my ribs? Now, do I feel it on the inside? In the back of my throat. Can you feel it?

Close your eyes for a second. Breathe through your nostrils, down your throat—where does it stop? What do you notice? Can you breathe to your toes? Can you pinpoint a part of your body and breathe into it? I mean, not think “finger” and breathe. I mean, breathe and feel what it’s like to be inside your finger. On command?

I need this breath. I need it to steady myself as I move between chapters of my life. As I leave my job, the house I raised my kids in, the safety of my neighborhood, my mountain, that Saturday companion of mine. As I move my daughter to a new school. As I live among boxes, navigating a complicated move, in a house that, at once, feels like the biggest mess but has never looked so good before.

I sit at home, on the computer doing my work, with boxes around me, the painters getting the house ready for the next person—whoever they may be, inhabiting these walls. New noises. New life. In these walls that are day by day looking less familiar to me, but all the same, more beautiful. 

I’m closing. Amen. Amen. Amen. Please pray for me. The chapter with my ex-husband is closing, the man who has all but forgotten that children need two parents, not just one super one. Ok, I’ll be that super one because there is not a single thing I won’t do for my kids. And now, fuck it, also for me. But if I’m doing it by myself, can he at least get off my back? If he forgets to pick up my child from school after he promised he’d be there, can he at least back off?

Ok… I thought of this story this week. What story? The story of my fucking marriage, that one. And it brought me to tears to realize that the whole time, I was not even hoping for love. No. That’s the truth. Love? No. I thought it was, but I realized all I was hoping for was to be tolerated. Why? Because let’s face it, guys. I’m too much. Let me let the fucking cat out of the bag: meow. I am fucking too much.

I looked back at our love story, how we were playing cat and mouse. He was the mouse, and I, no pun intended, was the cat. I thought about the heartbreak of our wedding, where I was sure he would finally love me and commit to me, only to find out that I kissed a frog. That the love he was keeping away from me our entire relationship wasn’t going to magically appear on our wedding night.

I lived a lifetime in the desert of my marriage, raising the most beautiful kids, in a marriage that drained me. It’s funny. Whenever he or my ex-boyfriend describe me, they say, “It’s like plugging into an energy source…” Hey, fuckers, did you ever think about what it might be like to be the energy source?

We were sitting once with my kids at dinner, when my ex lived with us. It was towards the end of our relationship—that’s my ex-boyfriend, not my husband. Any resemblance between their behavior is strictly accidental. (Wink, wink.) He was part of our household, we let him in, into the way we talk with one another—openly, freely, and without walking on eggshells—because we know that no matter what, there is love at this table.

So, we were talking about the impressions people make when you first meet them. You know, that main energy they emit—what is it? For my daughter, my oldest, it was “smart.” The second you meet her, you just know. She is smart. It’s in the way she moves her eyes, I think. I don’t know, but I can guarantee you that if you sit at a table with my daughter and you have a question, you will turn your head toward her expecting the answer—that’s just who she is. And it’s not because she said something smart; it’s just so clear.

My son? Funny, fun. You just know that about him. He didn’t make you laugh yet, but you can see by the way his lips always have just a hint of a smirk and his eyes are always almost laughing. You can just tell that he’s funny. And fuck, is he! My little one? She means business. That’s all I can tell you. I don’t know what it is, but that girl—when she talks, you just have to take note. There’s something so straight about the way she stands, almost proud, but not quite. Just strong. She says it, and you can’t help but let your heart smile and say, “Yes.”

When it got to my ex-boyfriend… “Nice.” He was so happy with that. Seriously? If someone said about me that my first impression is that I’m nice, I think I would start eating more spice in my food. Fuck. But it’s true. That’s the truest thing. And what was the word they all agreed on for me? There was some debate. They were trying to capture something about my energy, is what I surmised (you know, I only experience myself from the inside, so I was super curious). And where did they land? “Intense.”

Ha. Really. I took it as a compliment, or something matter-of-fact, when it came from my kids. They didn’t tell me, “Ema, you’re too intense.” They just said that I have an intensity about me that’s clear. Ok, whatever that means….

The next day on our way to work, we commuted together. He said to me, you know, those were his real moments, just the two of us. He didn’t have to be ‘nice’. He said, “If someone told me that I was intense, I would be so offended. Even your kids know that about you.”

Fuck. A million things happened in my head when he said that. What? You “nice” fuck (yes, in both meanings)? You entered my house, my safe space with my amazing kids, and now you’re weaponizing what they said in your twisted way? That was one thought. Another? Don’t worry, nobody is going to mistake you for intense ever. The most you can get is nice. So, no worries….

And finally, and most heartbreakingly, I got it. I am too intense for him. This whole time, I wanted to be loved, but I was only tolerated.

So, as I cross over to the next chapter—closing the chapter of being tolerated—I want a clean start. I want to leave my ex-husband behind. You don’t want to pay for your kids? Ever? You want me to be a stay-at-home mother for 10 years and then run a marathon so you can give up on life? Fine. At least let me leave intact. He is gripping onto me, and I am tired of holding him. Can I please just hold my kids?

In this moment in time, as I look outside my window, it’s like that scene from The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy looks out the window and the world is swirling in a tornado. My son is almost off to college, my daughter is off to Paris, and all of a sudden, I have to find ways to pay for all that and also change my entire life for a new chapter, my new job, where my daughter and I will live right next to work—no more commute. In this moment in time, I need a fucking breath.

As I sit on this bench, breathing in and out for the past few months, I’ve been asking myself questions. Looking out the window, I wonder: Is this what love is? Just being tolerated? Is that what it’s supposed to feel like? And as I look the ghost of my past relationship straight in the face, I realize: This is not love.

The faces at the window are scary. I wonder to myself, what would have happened if I hadn’t looked up a second time? What if I had stayed in that split dream where the bushes were just moving around? What if I never noticed, as I looked down, that there were no bushes? What if I had never looked up again, just stayed there with my brother, looking at the Atlas?

In reality, I was probably in a harmless situation, albeit weird. I wouldn’t have known I was being observed. Who knows if this was the first time or the last time? It probably was the last. But who knows if it was the first? I don’t. What if I didn’t know? What if I chose not to look again, not to see what was right there in front of me? What if my mind hadn’t forced me to look again and to see a face staring right at me, to look fear in the eyes?

I wouldn’t have known that my brother would come back for me. I wouldn’t have known the feeling of my uncle stepping in and feeling instant relief, because my body just knew to trust him. I wouldn’t have known any of this.

So, as I sit here on this bench, looking out the window of my life, I am looking fear straight in the eye. And this time, I’m just walking, holding my own hand. And what do you know? My uncle is still just a phone call away.

So, I sit on my bench, take that fucking breath, close my eyes, and breathe. I’m noticing that the more I go into my body, the more I breathe from inside it—actually feeling the inside of my upper thigh, then following it up to my lower back. As much as I let the breath take me for a ride, curious and enjoying this movement, I am in wonderment of what it wants to do. I just fill my lungs, exhale, and stay with that quiet breath. Somehow…

The other day, I was talking to a friend of mine, and I heard myself say: You know how it happens when you talk to a friend and you summarize something in your life you’ve been thinking for a while but haven’t put into words? I told my friend that, seemingly, my life is in such chaos. Everything around me is changing, and there’s so much uncertainty in all directions. But I am the calmest I’ve ever been.

In this journey inward, the only thing I have is my breath—the one where I experience the world from the inside of my body. That one is giving me the space with no words. And in that space, that quiet space, I know something I’ve been circling for years: I have absolutely no control over what the fuck the outcome is going to be. All I can do is my best. And breathe.

So, that’s all I’m doing these days—doing my best and breathing.

Some call it intense.

I call it…

Just hineni.

Here I am.

How was that journey inside? Did you survive it?

Now take your own breath.

What is staring at you out your window?

And are you ready to look a second time?