There is a weight pressing on the global Jewish soul, a heaviness we carry in silence and in struggle. We scroll through news with dread. We save a seat for the hostages at Shabbat dinner.
We feel the tension behind our smiles and the fatigue in our activism. Jews across the world are not just navigating grief. We are living inside trauma that never seems to end.
This is not just Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)—this is Current Traumatic Stress Disorder (CTSD). The threat is ongoing. The trauma is now.
Since Oct. 7, 2023, when Hamas terrorists launched their barbaric attack on Israel, the emotional toll on Jews worldwide has intensified. But the pain didn’t begin there. For many of us, it has been building for years—through waves of antisemitism, terror attacks, betrayal by former allies, and the exhausting effort to keep showing up.
I know this pain intimately. I have survived terrorism. I’ve lived through near-death experiences. I’ve endured violence and trauma that should have broken me. And like so many Jews, I now live with a target on my back—simply because I speak up. Because I am proudly, publicly Jewish. Because I am an unapologetic Zionist and advocate for truth, democracy, and human dignity.
In my work as a Jewish advocate, speaker, and advisor to NGOs, legislators, and communal organizations, I encounter fellow Jews who are emotionally raw and spiritually shaken. In community meetings, mental health roundtables, and synagogues—across the United States, Israel and internationally—there is a shared expression I see again and again: heartbreak. Fatigue. Disbelief. Isolation.
We are not only grieving for the hostages still held in Gaza, or for the IDF soldiers injured or killed. We are grieving the silence from people who once stood beside us. We are grieving the betrayals from progressive movements that abandoned us when we dared to name antisemitism within their ranks.
Personally, I lost most of my friends in the United States—people I had marched with and built alongside. When I publicly called out antisemitism and hypocrisy in those same spaces, they left. Some turned against me. Others faded away. But I also found new friendships—real ones—rooted in courage and clarity, not convenience or optics.
So many of us ask: How do we move through this? What’s the answer to this pain?
Part of the answer lies in mental health support. In Israel, organizations such as Natal and Elem are helping victims of terror and war. In the diaspora, Jewish communities are only beginning to realize how vital trauma-informed care is. We need therapy, peer support and communal initiatives that honor what we’re feeling—not dismiss it.
But therapy alone is not enough.
What has saved me—and what I see saving others—is the healing power of action.
If you feel overwhelmed, take a step.
If you feel isolated, reach out.
If you feel powerless, speak up.
We are strongest when we turn pain into purpose.
This is what I do through media, advocacy, and community work. I share, speak, write, and post constantly—not to center myself, but to remind others: You are not alone. The fear is real, but so is our strength.
The Jewish people have always rebuilt from ashes. Our story is not one of despair. It is one of defiance, resilience, and renewal.
To be Jewish is to feel deeply. To be Zionist is to care fiercely. And to be both right now is to turn grief into courage—and fight forward with it.
We are not broken. We are breaking through.
Our existence is resistance. Our living is winning.
“Am Israel Chai” is not just a chant. It is a shehechiyanu—a sacred declaration that we are still here. And we are not done yet.
