Asaf’s freedom isn’t Abstract.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about freedom.

What it means.

How it feels.

How different it is for every single person.

For some, freedom is simply the ability to breathe or to travel. For others, it’s being able to express who they are. For some, its safety, dignity, or simply the right to exist in peace.

We still have 59 Israeli hostages — human beings — held in unimaginable horror by Hamas. Their concept of freedom is not symbolic now. It’s real. It’s urgent. It’s being denied in the cruelest ways possible. And it's impossible not to think of them when I reflect on the meaning of freedom this Passover.

But I also think of Asaf.

His journey.

His voice.

His truth.

For Asaf, freedom is living at home, surrounded by his family — being in the one place where he is unconditionally loved and understood.

With every passing day, I learn something new about him, about his personality and character, and about what freedom truly looks like for him.

Sometimes it’s something as seemingly simple as getting out of the car. I see him trying — his brain sending the signal to move, and yet his body doesn’t follow. It’s like there’s a disconnect in the pathway. And then, I touch him. I gently help him move his leg — and it’s like the circuit closes, and he can.

The amazement never gets old.

Passover, for me, hasn’t always felt joyfully. To be honest, I don’t really like most of the Jewish holidays. They’re so “family-oriented,” and for years, that just made me feel more incomplete. As a single mother, juggling all the kids on my own often felt overwhelming. And when they were with their father — the silence was crushing.

But this year is different.

This year, I love it.

I love it because Asaf is home.

His joy is infectious. His hugs when he greets me in the morning are blessings.

On Sunday night, as we sat at the table together, he reached for me — pulled my head gently to his shoulder — and stroked my hair.

A mother-son moment I never knew I was missing until it happened.

His hands, his touch, said: “I see you, Mum. I’m with you.”

And then came Seder night — the first time in four years that Asaf was with us. We were all so excited. He sat in his chair, present, smiling, and connected. He watched everything — the singing, the dancing, the rituals, the laughter — and he was truly with us. He made his happy sounds, reached for our hair, wrapped us in hugs — every gesture a reflection of his deep joy.

At one point, he even drank a glass of wine.

Well he actually downed it in one big gulp.

We all burst out laughing. And he stayed with us for three whole hours — something that, in the past, would’ve felt unthinkable. Three hours of presence, of celebration and of belonging.

Last week in Merchavim, Asaf and his friends were discussing spoke about the chametz within themselves and everything that is unnecessary and no longer serves them. One sentence he wrote left me completely breathless:

"That I will succeed in forgetting the loneliness I felt in the hostel. Dayenu — to move forward."

It stopped me in my tracks.

So simple, yet so deep.

That sentence holds years of pain… and an act of choosing life.

Another reflection when talking about the What has changed... that shook me:

"To ask what has changed in me? I see change — he rescued himself into freedom."

He rescued himself into freedom.

Those aren’t just words. They’re a declaration. A truth.

A moment of transformation.

And I see it happening every day.

Watching him with Dill is another kind of miracle. They don’t speak the same language, but their bond is strong. One evening this week, Dill walked into the room and Asaf — without a word — raised his hand in perfect timing for a high five. I just sat there and smiled, my heart full.

We’ve had the most amazing week:

A two-hour walk in the park with a friend of Asaf's.

A day trip to the Golan with Maya.

Asaf clear on what he wanted and didn’t want.

Copious amounts of Laughing.

A walk on the beach with another friend of Asaf.

These used to be the kinds of outings that filled me with anxiety.

What if something goes wrong?

What if it’s too hard?

What if it’s just… too much?

And the truth is, for a long time, Asaf didn’t really have friends. There weren’t opportunities to socialise, to connect, to just be with others like him. Now, for the first time, he has a peer group — people who are like him. Friendship, in this world, looks different.

It’s not about long conversations or shared jokes. Sometimes it’s just about being in the same space — walking side by side, sitting together, existing together. The communication between them isn’t always obvious to my neurotypical eye… but it’s there. It exists.

And it’s meaningful.

They enjoy their company in a way that’s quiet, but undeniable. There’s a shared understanding between them — one that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. And I see what a powerful, grounding influence that has on Asaf.

Now I’m not anxious — I’m excited.

Excited that Asaf gets to have these experiences with others.

That he belongs.

That he’s not just participating — he’s connecting, growing, and truly living.

He’s becoming more confident. More clear. More alive. He’s trying things he never would’ve dared before.

And honestly? It’s just wonderful having him home.

His freedom isn’t abstract.

It’s this.

Being home.

Being loved.

Being seen.

Being Asaf.

And this week, I felt something shift inside me too.

Freedom, for me, has been about shedding the old beliefs I carried about who Asaf is and what he’s capable of.

Not long ago, I would have avoided trips and outings with him — afraid it would be too difficult, too unpredictable, too much for both of us.

But this week, we went on three different trips together — to the park, to the Golan Heights, and to the beach.

And not only did I not avoid it — I embraced it completely.

I was genuinely happy. Happy that he had the opportunity to hang out with friends.Happy that he was excited beforehand — even typing out who else he hoped would join.

And during each outing, he was so connected. Present, engaged, joyful and maybe most importantly, he was able to clearly communicate when he’d had enough.

That, for me, is monumental.

I’m so proud of him.

So proud of how far he’s come.

So proud of the way he’s beginning to carve his own path — not the one I imagined for him, but the one that’s truly his.

And somewhere in all of this, I’ve discovered my own freedom too.