Healthy Egoism

Quality Time together in the Safe Room

People often ask me where my strength comes from, how am I so resilient.

The answer isn’t glamorous and it’s not a secret.

It’s a decision I make, every single day to show up for myself. In DBT (Dialectical Behaviour Therapy) there’s an expression: Healthy Egoism. I'm a big believer in it, an advocate really. It's not about selfishness in the negative sense. It’s about prioritizing your own well-being, not at the expense of others, but so that you can truly be there for them.

I wake up each morning before dawn, with the first tweet of the birds. It's nature's gentle wake-up call, quietly telling me that a new day is about to begin. Some mornings, I take the dogs for a walk through the fields and watch the sun rise over the valley. Other days, I head to swim in the natural waters of Nahal HaKibbutzim. I can’t really explain how much inner strength this gives me. Swimming in those warm 25-degree waters, the silence, the connection to nature, just me, the fish, and the birds singing above:

There is no better way to begin the day.

People often ask me where I get my strength from. How am I so resilient? This is my strength. This is where I refill my tank. Some days I just can’t get myself up, no matter how much I try. But I never forget how good it feels when I do and that’s often enough to get me moving

After I return home from my morning activity, I feel a deep sense of accomplishment. Even if I achieve nothing else the entire day, I’ve shown up for myself. I've taken care of my well-being. And that, in itself, is everything.

Then there's my photography. I lose myself behind the camera, hunting for beauty to capture and share. It’s honestly my therapy, where the noise in my mind fades, where the thoughts stop racing at 180 miles an hour. It’s my calm zone. My zen. It allows me to simply be in the moment. And that presence, that slowing down, is something I need when I’m with Asaf. I can’t rush his process. He moves at his own pace, and I need to respect that and sync with him.

Photography has taught me to notice the smallest details, and also how to zoom out and see the bigger picture.

Recently, I choose 12 images for my new upcoming calendar . I was pleasantly surprised by just how many breathtaking sunrises I had captured. The feeling I get when I lose myself in those pictures is the same feeling I had when I took them and it fills me with joy to be able to share that feeling with others.

Slowing down through photography, quieting my mind; these are the same tools I use to connect with Asaf. He loves nature as much as I do, and there's nothing I love more than going on walks with him, sharing what's going on in my life, in our life, and then just enjoying the quiet together. Comfortable, meaningful silence.

Silence with Asaf isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of presence, trust, and quiet companionship. I used to be afraid of silence, I thought it meant disconnection, or that something was missing. But I’ve come to understand that some of the most profound moments between us happen in silence. When we walk side by side in nature, words aren’t needed. He knows I’m there. I know he’s there. And that’s enough. We’re together, present, synchronising.

This kind of silence feels sacred. It's not awkward or passive, it’s active. It asks me to slow down, to feel instead of fill, to notice rather than narrate. It’s the silence of trust. And in our shared quiet, there is love.

In many ways, my entire understanding of parenting has shifted over the past year. I used to believe that parenting meant guiding, teaching, protecting and of course, it still does. But lately, I’ve realized something deeper. Parenting is also a practice of listening. Of really tuning in.

And I don’t just mean listening to words,  because for so many years, I didn’t have words from Asaf. I mean listening with my whole being. With my eyes, my heart, my intuition. Listening to what’s not being said. Listening to the way he breathes when he’s calm, or clenches his jaw when something’s off. Listening to the rhythm of his footsteps, to the tilt of his head when he’s deep in thought.

When I finally understood that Asaf had been listening to me all these years , every word, every sentence, every tone of voice, it floored me. And then it humbled me. Because I had spoken to him so simply, so sparingly, believing he didn’t understand.

Now, I know better. And now, I listen better.

I’ve learned that listening is a form of love. It's how we tell someone: you matter, your inner world matters, I'm here with you, even when, especially when, it's quiet.

Nachal Hakibutzim