אין לי כוח

אין לי כוח

A couple of weeks ago, I was on the phone with my best friend, both of us kind of lamenting these crazy times we’re living in (again), when her daughter needed to do something that was clearly difficult and emotionally challenging, something that would take real energy.

And I heard her say, completely nonchalantly:

“Mama, אין לי כוח.”

And it totally floored me.

Not because it’s a phrase I hadn’t heard before. It’s a fairly common phrase here (in theory, though rarely used).

And what struck me wasn’t the phrase itself—it was how she said it. No shame. No apology.

Just… a fact.

And I realized—I have never said those words. Not like that. Not honestly. Not without a ton of shame attached to them.

Because here, in Israel, we don’t really do that.

We move.

We push.

We get up and do what needs to be done.

Resilience isn’t some abstract value—it’s movement. It’s momentum. It’s continuing on with your life.

And it’s a huge part of my identity. A part I actually cherish. It has carried me through things I don’t think I would have survived otherwise.

But lately… something has shifted.

It feels like we’re living in this strange hybrid of October 7th and Corona—where nothing is functioning, nothing is open, nothing is stable, and also you’re not really supposed to leave your house because rockets.

It’s been four weeks of this.

Nothing has really felt like חג האביב.

Nothing has really felt like חג החירות.

Nothing has felt like spring.

Nothing has felt like freedom.

And so today, I was driving on כביש 6—already nervous about the drive, already a little on edge—and my tire blew out.

Just like that.

I was stuck on the side of the road for well over two hours, waiting for a nonexistent service vehicle to rescue me.

Eventually I got out, took the tools, tried to loosen the lug nuts—and I couldn’t.

I tried again.

I kicked it.

Nothing.

Couldn’t do it.

Like a FREAKING friar.

And I went back into the car, sat there, and for the first time in my life said it out loud:

אין לי כוח.

Not “I’ll figure it out.”

Not “It’ll be fine.”

Just… I don’t have it.

And I cried. A little. Quietly. Because I was alone.

About half an hour later, a van pulled over.

A man got out, asked if I needed help, and within five minutes he had changed the tire and jump-started my car.

I got back in the car—the store I’d driven all this way for had, by now, closed—so I drove to fix the tire, and on the way home I started thinking about Pesach.

About cleaning.

About ovens and corners and crumbs and all the insanity we’ve somehow normalized.

And I thought—

Do I really have the strength for this right now?

The Torah says remove the leaven from your home.

It doesn’t say dismantle your entire life in the process.

If my dog won’t eat it, and I can’t reach it with a candle and a feather, then—

maybe it’s not mine.

Maybe this year I just put it in a box, tape it shut, and put it in the מחסן.

Because honestly?

אין לי כוח.

And then I kept driving.

Through places I haven’t been in years.

Places I love. Places I miss.

Places I’ve been too afraid to go.

And I felt angry.

Angry that I’ve been kept so fearful in my own country for so long.

Angry that my kids are growing up like this.

Angry that we just… keep going.

אין לי כוח.

And then, as I got closer to home, I passed through landscapes I know like the back of my hand.

Places that have taken hit after hit over the past few weeks.

Places I haven’t gone, even though I usually do.

And everything was blooming.

Actually blooming.

Not instead of the burnt trees.

Next to them. Through them.

And I remembered something I learned years ago—

that Pesach has to be in the spring because Bnei Yisrael needed to look to nature for inspiration, and see that even after a long winter, something in creation itself says:

enough.

ENOUGH.

Now we grow.

I got home after what felt like a very long, very heavy journey.

I walked in the door—and it smelled like food.

My eight-year-old had made dinner.

She had heard I was stuck on the side of the road.

I walked into the living room—and my other daughter had deep cleaned the entire space.

Like… actually clean. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it.

I was shocked. And honestly? A little confused—like… is this an alternate universe?

And then I sat down at the table.

And they started bringing me food and drink.

And I sat there, in this clean, calm house that I didn’t create and wasn’t responsible for, and it just felt like a gift.

And with every bite of that chewy pasta, I felt more and more… nourished.

In a way I haven’t felt for… a while.

So I looked at them and I said:

Girls, a couple of hours ago I was sitting on the side of the road crying in my car, saying אין לי כוח for the first time in my life.

And now I’m sitting here eating your food, in this space you created.

Your love is giving me כוח.

If you’ve made it this far, I want to dedicate this piece to Baba, who would have been 100 years old tomorrow, March 31, 2026.

Baba—every three steps I take are for you.

LYMTL.