D-Day: A New Beginning

It’s 3 a.m., and I’m wide awake. I’m sure many of you know the feeling well. You wake up with a jolt, and before you have time to calm yourself and fall back into sleep, your mind takes over. The thoughts start shooting across your brain, one after another, like an unstoppable tidal wave. I tried all my breathing techniques, all the tricks I’ve learned to slip back into sleep—but it’s no use tonight.

Today is D-Day. The day Asaf has been dreaming about for the past three and a half years. The day he returns home.

As I lie here in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I can’t help but reflect on this incredible journey. I have to pinch myself to believe this is real, that this day has finally come. When you’re living inside something, stuck in the middle of it, it’s so hard to step back and see the bigger picture. You’re just trying to get through each moment, one breath, one decision at a time. But now, with this monumental day ahead of us, I can finally see it all more clearly—how far we’ve come, how much we’ve endured, and how miraculous this story truly is.

Asaf’s story is huge. For so long, I was convinced that he was incapable of complex thoughts. I told myself he was happy, or at least that he had found some kind of peace living in his autistic bubble. I thought I was doing what was best for him—choosing a place where he would be taken care of, surrounded by professionals who understood his needs.

And then came the moment that shattered everything I thought I knew. It all changed with the words he typed: “Get me out of here. I don’t want to die here.”

When I first read those words, it felt like the ground beneath me disappeared. I was devastated. What mother wants to discover that her son is utterly miserable? The realization hit me like a freight train—I had been so sure I was protecting him, giving him what he needed. But instead, I had unknowingly placed him in a situation that made him feel trapped, hopeless, even desperate.

In the past, I would have blamed myself endlessly. I would have carried that guilt like a weight on my shoulders, questioning every decision I ever made. But I’ve learned not to go down that path anymore. DBT has taught me something so important: I was doing the best I could with the tools I had at the time. And I can do better.

Those last four words took me a long time to fully understand: I can do better. For so long, I thought they meant I had failed. But now, I know they mean I’m growing. They mean I’m human. They mean I love my son deeply enough to keep striving, to keep learning, and to keep showing up for him in the best way I can.

I’ve also learned to look at myself with compassion. Instead of punishing myself for what I didn’t know, I remind myself that I was doing the best I could with the tools I had at the time. I see the love and intention behind every decision I made, even the ones that turned out differently than I hoped. That compassion allows me to hold space for my mistakes without letting them define me. It reminds me that being a good mother isn’t about being perfect—it’s about continuing to grow, no matter how hard the journey gets.

Asaf’s return home today marks not only the end of one chapter but the beginning of another—one filled with hope, love, and a deeper connection than ever before. This day is about so much more than a physical move; it’s about stepping into a new reality, one where Asaf’s voice is finally heard, where his needs and dreams can take center stage, and where we can begin building a life together that is filled with purpose, understanding, and mutual respect.

 I also want to share an important new development: Alex, Asaf’s new carer, arrived yesterday. His presence marks yet another step forward in Asaf's journey. Having Alex here is a reassurance, knowing that Asaf will be supported by someone who understands his needs and communicates with him in a way that respects his intelligence and independence. This addition to our team brings a sense of security, as we navigate the next chapter together. I believe that with Alex’s care, Asaf will continue to grow and flourish in a supportive, loving environment.

The gift Asaf has been given—the ability to communicate through typing—is something I am thankful for every single day. It has opened a door to his inner world, a door I never thought I’d have the privilege of walking through. I know there will be challenges along the way, and there are moments when fears about the future try to creep in. But when they do, I remind myself of this powerful truth: today, we have the gift of communication. Asaf can share with us his thoughts, his needs, his desires, and even his fears.

And because of that, we can face whatever comes together. Together, we can work to build a future for him that, 10 months ago, neither of us could have even dreamed of. This isn’t just about bringing him home; it’s about creating a space where he feels valued, respected, and supported in every way.

I want to take a moment to express my deep gratitude to the team at the hostel. You cared for Asaf in ways I never thought possible, providing him with the structure, attention and care . You not only cared for him, but you also loved him, and for that, I am truly thankful.

But while this is an important milestone, I see it as a stepping stone toward something much bigger. My dream is to raise the resources needed to build a dedicated day center and assisted living facility where all communication is through typing. It’s a space where non-speaking individuals will never be expected to fit into the world as we know it, but rather where the world adapts to them. We need to honor the unique ways they communicate, and build environments where they can live with dignity, purpose, and independence. This is only the beginning, but together we can make this dream a reality.

So here we are, ten months later, standing on the edge of a new beginning. A beginning I never thought possible, one built on courage, resilience, and the incredible gift of communication. This isn’t the end of the journey; it’s the start of a new chapter filled with hope, possibilities, and growth. I know the road ahead may still have its twists and turns, but today, I feel ready to face them. Together, Asaf and I will continue to navigate this new reality—one where his voice leads the way, and where we can dream, build, and grow as a family.