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The Day I Stopped Surviving and Started Writing
For years, I was stuck inside a body that flinched at the world.
I carried trauma like a second skin — invisible to most, suffocating to me.
I had served in one of Israel’s elite combat units, and I came home with wounds no X-ray could show.
The symptoms were relentless.
Panic attacks that came without warning.
A heart that raced even in silence.
A mind that replayed things I couldn’t talk about — and a body that refused to rest.
I’d lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours, wired and exhausted at the same time.
No peace. No quiet. Just static.
At first, I tried to outrun it.
Then I tried to numb it.
And then I broke.
But one day — I picked up a pen.
Not because I thought it would heal me.
Because nothing else worked.
Because I had nothing left to lose.
And something happened.
The page didn’t judge.
It didn’t flinch.
It listened.
The writing didn’t “cure” me.
But it gave the pain a voice.
It let me shape the chaos.
It taught me that stories can hold what bodies cannot.
That was the beginning.
Of healing.
Of reclaiming.
Of finally understanding that I didn’t need to be who I was before the trauma — I just needed to become someone honest about what I carried.
Today, my novel Dog — the book born from that pain — is being published in the United States.
It still stuns me.
I didn’t write it to impress anyone.
I wrote it because silence was killing me.
If you’re out there, stuck between symptoms and shame — I see you.
And I promise: the page is waiting.
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