A few months ago, I decided to go on a yoga retreat in India. My intention was simple: to feel more connected – to my life in Israel, to new people, and to myself. I wanted to slow down, turn inward, and create space to reflect and grow.

A few weeks ago, I finally went.

And yes, as a bonus, the entire retreat was in Hebrew, so somewhere between downward dog and deep breathing, I found myself in an unexpected Ulpan.

Some lessons were predictable. I learned new poses I cannot safely attempt at home. But one lesson surprised me: I began to build a new level of trust in other people.

For years, I carried a quiet internal rule: don’t trust people too much.

It wasn’t random. It was shaped by experience and reinforced over time. Living in Israel, I often felt like I didn’t fully belong. People were kind, but deep inside, I felt tolerated rather than truly accepted. I had my explanations ready: German, lesbian, an older mother with young children. Even after converting to Judaism, that feeling didn’t fully shift.

What made it more confusing is that it hadn’t always been this way. When I first came to Israel at 16, I fell in love instantly. The connection felt electric—like something ancient in me recognized this place before I could even explain it. Back then, I did feel accepted. I did feel a sense of belonging. So what changed? That’s a story for another time.

If you’ve ever felt like an outsider, you know how convincing those internal stories can be. I hope you don’t let them define you. I’ve come to believe that we unconsciously recreate the experiences we most need in order to heal. Things don’t happen in isolation—we participate in them. We create, promote, or allow situations that give us a chance to understand something more deeply. It’s not always an easy idea to sit with, especially when it’s so natural to look outside ourselves for the cause.

At the retreat, I decided to question my old rule or “don’t trust people too much.”

Did it still serve me, or was I just carrying it out of habit?

I was tired of carrying it.

My parents are no longer here, and some of these beliefs, shaped by their experiences, didn’t need to continue through me. It was time to let them go.

And once I made that decision, something shifted.

I experienced kindness. Openness. Real connection. It wasn’t perfect, and it was real. And I realized that trust isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It means allowing something new.

At our final circle, I shared that I had decided to let go of this belief.

And then, life responded immediately.

Because of the situation in Israel, I couldn’t return home.

Everything shifted, fast.

The calm reflection I had imagined turned into uncertainty, urgency, and moments of real fear. I found myself asking near-strangers if I could stay with them, navigating decisions that felt impossible to get right.

And underneath it all was the weight of being far away from my children during a tense and painful time.

This was far from the peaceful ending I had imagined.

And yet, something unexpected happened.

In the middle of the chaos, there was also space.

Space I wouldn’t have created for myself.

And in that space, one insight became a mantra:

I lose my center when my focus moves too far outside of me.

When my sense of safety depends entirely on what others do, on news updates, or on how events unfold, I become unsteady.

As a life, business, and executive coach, I often guide clients through moments of uncertainty, helping them reconnect with what they can control. In this chaos, I applied those same tools to myself: focus on your breath, slow your mind, anchor in what is real, and take action from clarity rather than fear.

So I began returning to simple things.

A few minutes of breathing.

Stretching tension out of my body.

Walking to calm my system.

Reading something gentle with no need to achieve, simply to soften.

Nothing extraordinary, just small anchors.

There were moments of gratitude.

There were also moments of guilt.

I’m learning to let both exist.

Creating small pockets of normalcy helped too. I bought a used computer and slowly started working again, even while things still felt unsettled, because it gave me a small island of control.

And if you’re reading this from Israel right now, this isn’t theoretical, it’s your daily life.

You may be running on very little sleep, your nights interrupted by alarms or the quiet tension of waiting for one. Even when it’s quiet, your body doesn’t fully relax.

You may be holding your children close, trying to reassure them while managing your own fear. Schools and kindergartens are closed. Routines are gone. You are everything at once, parent, teacher, emotional anchor, while still trying to work, function, keep going.

And underneath it all, the questions don’t stop:

How long can I keep this up?

This is not a normal situation.

If you feel exhausted, overwhelmed, or stretched beyond what feels manageable, that’s not failure. That’s a human response to prolonged uncertainty.

In moments like this, “finding your center” can sound unrealistic. But as a coach, I know that small, intentional actions create neuroplastic shifts: rewiring your brain to notice calm, even when everything outside is unpredictable.

Sometimes your center looks like one quiet minute.

One deeper breath before reacting.

Letting go of the idea that today has to be productive.

Lowering the bar, from doing everything to simply getting through the day.

Because right now, getting through the day is enough.

Your focus will get pulled outward, toward fear, toward uncertainty, toward everything you cannot control. That’s natural.

The practice is simply to come back.

You don’t need to feel calm all the time.

You don’t need to have it all together.

You just need small moments of returning to yourself.

And those moments add up.

In times like these, being gentle with yourself isn’t a luxury, it’s essential.

Peace doesn’t mean the world around you is calm.

It means you are finding moments of steadiness within it.

And sometimes, in the middle of everything falling apart, finding your center is the quietest, and strongest form of resilience we have.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)