There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that comes from living a “normal” life that isn’t actually normal at all.

On paper, my days look fine.

I wake up. I teach. I answer messages. I try to keep things moving.

From the outside, it might even look like I have my life together.

There’s this constant hum under everything—like your body forgot how to fully relax and just… gave up trying.

Because even on the quiet days, you’re not calm.

Waiting for the next siren.

The next “are you okay” text that comes after something already happened.

And the strangest part is—you don’t even realize how much you’re carrying until something small cracks it open.

The Illusion of “Fine”

People ask, “How are you?”

And most of the time, I say, “I’m fine.”

Because what’s the alternative—an honest answer in passing?

How do you explain that you’re functioning—but not okay?

That you’re teaching classes on Zoom while your brain is half-listening for sirens?

That your nervous system is basically on permanent alert, like a smoke detector that won’t stop beeping?

I still have responsibilities.

Students. Work. Life.

And I show up for them.

But showing up and being okay are not the same thing.

The sirens are scary. Of course they are.

But the waiting might be worse.

It’s the quiet where nothing is happening—but it could.

It’s checking your phone without realizing you’re checking it.

It’s automatically clocking where the nearest shelter is wherever you go, like that’s just a normal life skill now.

And then there are the moments that make you realize how not normal this actually is.

I’ll be in the middle of teaching on Zoom—mid-sentence, trying to be present—and suddenly that pre-siren alert goes off.

On my phone. On all of my students’ phones.

That insane, jarring sound that immediately takes over everything.

Bibi (my dog)  jumps up before I even move—he already knows what’s coming. He’s bracing for the shaking, for the boom, for whatever his version of understanding this is.

And I have to switch. Instantly.

Calm voice. “Okay everyone, close your computers, go to a shelter, we’ll meet back after.”

Meanwhile I’m bribing my dog like my life depends on it because he refuses to go to the shelter—honestly, can’t say I blame him—and I’m trying to make sure my students are okay, trying to sound calm enough that they believe me.

And then a few minutes later, you get the message that it’s over.

You reopen your computer.

And you go right back to teaching a random short story—like that’s a completely normal follow-up to that sequence of events.

Like this is just… part of the schedule now.

As an American living in Israel, there’s this added layer that’s hard to explain without it coming out wrong.

My friends and family back home—they care. I know they care.

They check headlines. They say they’re thinking of me.

But their world is still… normal.

So sometimes it shows up in ways that feel small—but aren’t.

A conversation that moves on too fast.

A “lol” that doesn’t quite land.

And it’s not malicious. It’s not intentional.

Because when your entire reality feels like it’s on edge, even small disconnects feel loud.

This Is the Part I Don’t Know How to Say Nicely

I think this is the part that’s hardest to say without sounding dramatic, but here it is anyway.

Sometimes it feels like I’m living in something constant and heavy and very real—and the people I love are kind of… visiting it.

Like it’s something you can check in on, feel for a minute, and then step away from.

And I don’t have that option.

I don’t get to close the tab.

I don’t get to take a break from it.

I don’t get to forget—even for a few hours—because my body won’t let me.

So when there’s no message, or the conversation stays surface-level, or it feels like people don’t quite want to sit in it with me—it doesn’t feel small.

It feels like I’m here… alone in something that isn’t small at all.

And I’m not asking anyone to fix it.

I just don’t want to feel like I have to carry it quietly.

I can’t speak for everyone.

But I can speak for myself.

I’m not asking for grand gestures.

I’m not asking for perfect words.

Sometimes, all I want is:

A text that says, “How are you—really?”

A phone call that doesn’t end after two minutes

Someone willing to just sit in it with me for a minute—even if it’s uncomfortable

Because living alone right now can feel… really alone.

Yes, I have Bibi—and anyone who knows me knows Bibi is basically a personality—but he’s not exactly great at emotional processing. Strong presence, weak conversationalist.

Trying to Stay Human (and Employed, Ideally)

I’m still teaching. On Zoom. Which is its own kind of chaos.

And my work as an event planner?

Let’s just say… not exactly peak season.

It’s strange trying to create celebrations when everything around you feels so uncertain.

When people are canceling, postponing, downsizing—relearning what matters in real time.

When joy feels… complicated.

For my students. For my clients. For my life.

Some days that looks strong.

Some days it looks like just getting through.

What people don’t always realize is how much the smallest things matter right now.

A “just thinking of you.”

Those things don’t feel small here.

They feel like oxygen.

If You’re Reading This

If you know someone here—just reach out.

You don’t need the perfect words.

You don’t need to fully understand.

Stay a little longer than you usually would.

Because what feels small to you…

might be the thing that makes someone feel a little less alone in a life that right now is lived between sirens.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)