Between Sirens and Deep Breaths: Stories of Resilience

Our Airbnb in Ramat Aviv has a porch overlooking a courtyard playground. On Shabbat morning, I sit on the porch with the baby, and listen to a strange sound - silence. Birds sing above the faint hum of traffic, but the usual sounds of laughter and squeaking swings are missing. The quiet feels heavy. The baby is mesmerized by my coffee cup. It’s made of clear glass, and she watches the dark, soothing liquid swirl as her tiny hands nudge it. I look up at the sky - it is such a gorgeous clear blue that my heart hurts at its beauty. The moon lingers—a crescent that looks like someone took a bite out of a sugar-dusted cookie. My husband and the older kids are at the synagogue down the street, and I savor this rare Shabbat morning of rest, a moment where I don’t have to work.

Then, a motorcycle revs up, and my heart rate spikes. My hands start to shake, and I hold the baby to my chest. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and let my belly fill against her back. I hold it. I release, slowly. The birds are still singing, and she is still trying to reach the coffee in the cup. There are still no children laughing in the playground.

Reading this, you might wonder why I’m so affected by the sound of a motorcycle. Why the absence of laughter feels heavy. Why the stunning blue sky brings tears to my eyes.

The simple answer isn’t so simple. On Friday night, a playground in a courtyard like the one I’m gazing at was struck by a ballistic missile fired at Tel Aviv. This was the third such attack in less than a week.

The first one came on our very first day here. We were at the Tel Aviv port, enjoying ice cream and the kind of chaos vacations bring. I’d accidentally ordered a comically large frozen yogurt, and we were laughing while wondering where our son had wandered off in the adjacent playground. The sun warmed us; life felt carefree.

Then, the siren.

A shriek tore through the air, people began running, and panic gripped me. Me—the emotions teacher, the breathing coach, the calm-your-big-feelings lady—panicked. I couldn’t see my son. I had the baby in my arms. We didn’t know where the nearest shelter was. My body shook as I screamed his name, my voice hitting an octave I didn’t know existed. He came running from the far corner of the playground. Relief and fear tangled in my chest.

I yelled at my husband to leave the stroller. (He didn’t.) We ran to the ice cream shop—a storefront made almost entirely of glass—and huddled by the freezers. My children looked at me with wide, frightened eyes as I cradled the baby’s head against my chest. Fear, raw and visceral, coursed through me—fear that cut deeply into primal, generational, protective instincts. We didn’t know what to do, how long to wait, or what the protocols were. We had naively thought we’d arrived in a time of relative peace, where the major players were quiet. We’d forgotten about the minor players, who still have big, scary weapons.

On that day, three rockets made their way to Israel from a terrorist group in Yemen. Since then, I’ve downloaded the right apps—the ones that tell you what to do—and we always make sure to know where the public shelters are.

In the days that followed, I started noticing the toll on my children. My oldest became unusually jumpy, flinching at loud noises or sudden movements. My son complained of stomach aches that often ended in bouts of nausea or vomiting. Bedtime conversations were filled with repetitive, anxious questions—ruminations about where the next siren might come from, what we would do, how we would stay safe. The weight of their fear was palpable, and it shattered me to see their small bodies and big hearts carrying the invisible scars. Even more shattering is the fact that their friends and family who live here carry them all the time.

So much of what we do, talk about, and think about when we talk about Israel abroad abroad feels theoretical, even when it’s grounded in empathy and understanding. This is true, even when we hear stories and first hand accounts. I’ve been teaching children in Israel over Zoom for years, guiding them through breathing exercises and grounding techniques to help during sirens or to calm their bodies afterward - and hearing how they use them from their parents. Yet somehow, the reality of what they describe—the rhythmic breathing during the undulating shrieks, the deliberate efforts to regulate panic after—never fully sank in, until I was there myself - adrenaline and cortisol racing through my body and igniting my nervous system, tapping my collarbone in time with slow, heartbeat-paced breaths.

Talking to children in Israel who live with this reality in their bodies every day adds yet another dimension. These are kids who have carried this fear for over a year—longer in some cases—and it’s woven into their lives in a way that is hard to comprehend unless you’re here. Watching my own children process a brief encounter with this terror brought a new depth to these conversations. The coping tools I teach are still valuable, but the integration of lived experience shifts the conversation entirely. There’s a rawness, an honesty, in speaking with children whose fear has no expiration date.

In the first few days, I found myself reflecting on the destabilizing fear I felt, even though I know how to manage it, and wondering how these children continue to live, love, and grow with such remarkable resilience. It also made me think about how to approach teaching the tools here, where children experience thunderstorms as rocket explosions.

The morning after the first siren, my daughter quietly told me something that stopped me in my tracks. “I was doing the ‘I Am Safe’ breathing you taught me,” she said, “but I don’t think you saw me.” She was right. I had been so consumed by my own fear, that I hadn’t noticed her leaning against the wall, breathing deliberately, managing her fear in the only way she could. I felt a wave of guilt, and I admitted to her, “I was really scared.” She took my hand, her voice steady, and said, “We should do it together.” Then, she showed me a variation she had developed, adding a sand timer pattern and a little pause to each inhale and exhale—something that felt better for her body. In that moment, she wasn’t just my child; she was my teacher.

Teaching coping mechanisms is one thing; using them when it feels like the ground beneath you is shaking is another entirely.

In the nights that followed, when the sirens woke us again and again (and still do), my body still shook with fear, but I jumped into action. We gathered the children, rushed them into the shelter, and closed the heavy door behind us. There, in the dim light, I tapped into what I know—what I teach. I held my children close, and we breathed together. I talked them through slow, deliberate inhales and exhales, pausing just like my daughter had shown me. My voice was calm, even as my heart raced. In those moments, I could feel our nervous systems beginning to regulate, the panic giving way to steadier breaths, softer shoulders, and a sense of safety despite the chaos outside.

Using these tools in real time speaks to their power and effectiveness. They aren’t just theoretical—they work. In the face of heightened fear, they allow us to regain control over our bodies and minds, even if only momentarily. They also allow us not to carry the fear into the next day. The children are able to go back to sleep after each siren, as if it were nothing more than the baby crying. This experience underscores for me the vital importance of teaching children—and adults—how to regulate their nervous systems in times of crisis. The ability to pause, breathe, and ground ourselves isn’t just a coping mechanism; it’s a lifeline.

Speaking with an American friend who has lived here for three years, she reflected on how these moments in the shelter—huddled together with your kids, counting down the minutes until it’s safe to leave—add an unexpected layer of gratitude. “It’s a terrible thing,” she said, “but it’s also a time when you’re all so close, physically and emotionally, that it reminds you what really matters.” Her words, and our experience stay with me as we navigate the country, where I have the honor of speaking with families, children, teachers, and soldiers and hearing their stories of loss, fear, and resilience.

During this trip, I’ve been struck by the way my children and Israeli kids—both family members and those we’ve met through connecting with people across the country—have interacted. The conversations between them flow in a mix of Hebrew and English as they share bits of their lives. The Israeli kids are shocked to learn how long our school day is, and my children ask them, “How do you live with this all the time?” The Israeli kids, in turn, ask if my kids are okay during the sirens. Their conversations then turn to exchanging calming strategies and games—ideas my kids had learned back home and methods the Israeli kids had developed over time.

In a session with a 10 year old girl and her mother - where her mother shared stories of personal despair, the girl asked me with quiet curiosity, “Why did you choose to come here during a time of war?” Her question brought me face-to-face with the deeper resonance of our decision to be in Israel at this time. No matter where Jews are in the world, we are tied to Israel—our history, our people, and our shared destiny. Being here, even during strife, feels like a reaffirmation of that bond, a way to stand alongside those who cannot choose to leave. I told her it was important for me to be here, with my kids, to hear their stories, to hold space, to teach calming tools - to be here, where every day they fight for our freedom as Jews.

I’ve had the great honor of sitting with parents and children who have shared a spectrum of experiences from this war. Some have recounted severe mental health challenges born from heavy loss, trauma, and unrelenting fear. Others have shared incredible stories of hope, of communities coming together to rebuild homes and lives, of people who didn’t leave their homes and businesses despite daily rocket barrages on their towns, and of children speaking with pride about their love for family and country. I’ve spoken to teachers who now find themselves not only educators but also guardians of the very lives entrusted to their classrooms. When a siren rings, they often have as little as 15 seconds to lead an entire class of children to shelter before impact. The fear, guilt, and relentless second-guessing that take root in their hearts are palpable—an overwhelming sense of responsibility that goes far beyond any professional training. These emotions nestle into their muscles, entangling with their tendons as their bodies rewire into a constant state of heightened awareness. The simple act of lowering their shoulders with a deep breath, sending momentary waves of physical and emotional relief.

Over the first few days of our trip, I began to notice a shift in my children. After three sirens, they started to adapt—mirroring the way Israelis incorporate this unsettling reality into daily life. In various situations, they’d ask me with curiosity rather than panic, “What would we do if it happened now?” or - future facing questions such as, “When we get home, will we still feel siren-y?” Their stress symptoms, so palpable in the first days, were no longer as visible. They had settled into a strange rhythm of normalcy in the chaos, while I, in contrast, still felt my hands shake at times. My vigilance remained heightened in public places, my body on edge for the next unknown. One week into our trip, and five middle-of-the night sirens later, we spend those moments in the shelter reflecting on gratitude - for the way Israel protects its people, for the opportunity to be here in this difficult time and fully understand what it means, and even for the fact that in our home, we are quite far from this experience. These moments in the shelters, when we sit together and help each other stay calm, will be memories that stay with them.

Everywhere in Israel, there are reminders of the war. It’s not just in the sirens or the shelters—it’s in the landscape, the faces, and the everyday spaces. In the north, buildings with shattered windows serve as haunting markers of past attacks. Across the country, pictures of the hostages are unavoidable—plastered on highways, displayed in supermarket aisles, and lining the walls of neighborhoods. On some highways, cars wrecked by terrorists during the massacre at the Nova festival hang suspended, spray-painted yellow, ghostly reminders of the sheer brutality this country has suffered. Banners hang from buildings and over streets, bearing slogans promoting unity, urging for their return, and declaring resilience: “Bring Them Home Now,” “Am Yisrael Chai,” “Israel Lives On.” These visual reminders are a constant thread running through daily life, keeping the war’s impact close even in moments that might otherwise feel normal.

Anxiety often works in the body as a protective mechanism, heightening awareness and preparing us for threats—like a teacher instinctively shielding her students or my own hyper-vigilance in public spaces. But when this state becomes chronic—when the body remains on high alert day after day—it begins to fray the nervous system, disrupt emotional regulation, and leave people vulnerable to both physical and mental health challenges. For civilians in war zones, this kind of anxiety is embedded into daily life. Over time, it leaves invisible scars that ripple through individuals, families, and entire communities. Working to release this anxiety, to reset and calm the nervous system, is not just about feeling better in the moment—it’s essential to healing. Without this work, the wounds of war deepen; with it, there’s hope for repair, resilience, and the possibility of reclaiming peace within.

Sitting on the porch again, another gorgeous sky above - I reflect on the strange juxtaposition of quiet and chaos. The stillness of a morning mirrors the resilience I’ve seen in my children and the Israeli families we’ve met. It’s a silence that carries both absence and hope, a reminder that even in fractured places, connection and healing are possible. A belief that even in the most fractured places, unity allows us to come together and rebuild a world in which peace is the norm - rather than the oddity.

Images of War - Israel