I was standing on the balcony, holding a razor blade, trying to decide if I wanted to keep living. The night was quiet. The air still. Central Israel’s moon hung above me like a witness. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even afraid. I just felt hopeless.
Then—like the ram in the thicket in the Akedat Yitzchak story—she appeared: my roommate,
across the balcony, eyes locked on mine. I hadn’t called for help. I hadn’t said a word. But there
she was, caught in the branches of fate.
And like the angel who called out to Avraham—not once, but twice—my other roommate came
running. No wings. No trumpet blasts. Just bare feet and open eyes. Her voice pierced the night
with urgency. She talked me down—as if Hashem’s still, small voice was emanating through
her—and she gently took the blade from my hands.
My roommates saved my life that night.
That was eight years ago, a year after I made Aliyah. A year after I believed everything would
finally make sense.
Because for as long as I can remember, I had one great dream: to make Aliyah. It was my
compass, my singular purpose, my organizing principle—the story that made everything else
cohere. Every struggle, every sacrifice, every compromise made sense because it led to Israel.
Aliyah was supposed to be the fulfillment of my Jewish identity. I would marry a frum husband.
We’d learn Daf Yomi together before work. Raise children who were bilingual, rooted,
righteous. We would build a home in the land of our ancestors.
But I knew—quietly, devastatingly—that my reality did not align with that vision.