For nearly two years, Israel has lived in a state of war. At first, we rallied. We showed up for one another, for our families, our neighbors and our communities. We found ways to keep moving through grief, anxiety and uncertainty. We were praised for our resilience.
But now, many of us are simply tired.
The word “resilient” has followed us like a shadow. It is meant as a compliment, and in many ways, it is accurate. Israelis have shown time and again that we know how to adapt, carry on and rebuild.
Researchers have long noted that resilience in the Jewish state is not coincidental. It is rooted in our collective history. The Jewish story is one of survival against impossible odds, passed down from generation to generation. Epigenetics research suggests that trauma and survival responses may even be inherited biologically, shaping how future generations respond to stress. That inheritance is both a strength and a burden.
When resilience becomes an expectation instead of a choice, then it becomes burdensome. It makes it harder to admit that resilience has limits. Sometimes it pushes us forward when what we truly need is a moment to stop and catch our breath. It becomes a mask that hides pain instead of acknowledging it.
Resilience is not the absence of struggle. It is not the denial of exhaustion. And the truth is that many of us are exhausted.
This was evident early in the war, when the hashtag #NoMatterWhat was used to signal to investors that Israel’s tech industry would continue to function. The intention was to protect economic stability, but for those working directly with survivors from the Nova music festival or families from the Otef Aza region, the message felt disconnected from reality. The mind might understand the strategy, but the heart pulled away.
This tension defines our national dilemma. The messaging of survival often collides with the lived experience of grief, fatigue and fear.
The recent ceasefire with Iran brought this into focus again. After 12 days of war in June, with sirens echoing across the country and families sheltering in stairwells, we remained anxious on Wednesday night. By Thursday morning, we were expected to return to work and send our children to school sans transition. There was no transition, no pause to reflect or recover.
That sudden return to routine felt like a trauma of its own. People were still in shock, yet expected to carry on as if nothing had happened. It felt like a game of whack-a-mole: one crisis quiets, another responsibility appears, and we are told to keep going.
Trauma is not always the result of one catastrophic event; it can come from chronic stress that accumulates over time. Research on adverse childhood experiences shows that prolonged stress can shape long-term mental and physical health. Adults are not immune to this.
Two years of ongoing fear, loss and instability take their toll. Each siren, funeral and headline adds another layer. The human body and mind can endure a great deal. Eventually, though, the pressure manifests: insomnia, irritability, difficulty concentrating and illness. These are not personal failures. They are natural responses to prolonged stress.
This strain is also collective. The ongoing captivity of the hostages has weighed heavily on us all. A recent study by Yoav Groweiss, Carmel Blank, Yuval Neria and Yossi Levi-Belz reported that nearly half of Israelis met the criteria for probable Prolonged Grief Disorder related to the hostage crisis, even without a personal connection to those abducted. This is a form of grief defined by ambiguity and lack of closure. It interferes with sleep, focus, optimism and even our ability to imagine the future.
Reservists and their families are also reaching a breaking point. A survey of more than 2,300 reservist spouses found that 45% of reservists and 68% of their partners reported emotional distress. Yet only one-quarter of spouses reported receiving any support. One in five couples reported considering divorce. At the start of the war in the fall of 2023, these families were surrounded by help; now, they have been largely left on their own.
ICAR Collective’s recent survey of nearly 1,000 Israelis confirmed what many of us feel: Stress and anxiety are everywhere, even among those who appear to be doing well. Some 64% of the Israeli population said that their mental health was good or very good; at the same time, 59% reported experiencing stress or anxiety in the past month. Even among those who felt well, two in five reported ongoing stress. Only 9% described themselves as unwell, though 21% had sought professional help in the past year.
This reflects a broader truth. Many Israelis report high levels of life satisfaction, even during the war. But beneath that optimism is a quiet epidemic of stress and anxiety. These symptoms are present even in the lives of people who believe they are managing.
It is all right to say we are weary.
Acknowledging our exhaustion does not make us less resilient. It deepens our resilience. True resilience includes honesty, rest and support. It means grieving, setting boundaries and asking for help when the load becomes too heavy.
If we want to move forward, we must move beyond survival mode. That means not expecting normal to return overnight. It means building systems that support long-term recovery, including mental health services, collective reflection and realistic expectations for healing.
There is strength in saying we are tired. It is not a weakness. It is true.
We are resilient. And we are exhausted.
Naming both gives us the chance to move not only toward surviving, but also toward healing.
