Learning to Walk Again

One of the many moments of happiness captured on camera this week.

Bringing Asaf home was all I could think about for months. I was so focused on making it happen, so determined that it would be good for him, that I never truly stopped to consider what his actual presence at home would mean for me and my life. Now that he’s here, I feel like the rug has been pulled out from underneath me, and I’m learning to find my footing anew.

It’s like I’ve stepped onto brand-new ground, and now I’m learning how to stand, balance, and walk again. I’m rebuilding everything: my daily life, my family dynamics, my communication, even my understanding of who Asaf really is beyond the assumptions and structures that once defined him.

There are moments when I realize I didn’t fully think about how this would affect my day-to-day routine. Balancing a full-time job and studying, I now have to integrate this new reality into my already packed days. Sometimes there’s a disconnect between what I envision and what he is ready for. I want to sit and type with him, but he doesn’t always want to. He has strong desires and aspirations, yet his dyspraxia often betrays him, making even the simplest movements difficult. He longs to ride horses, but on many occasions, his body doesn’t cooperate. For example he struggles to mount, doesn’t feel stable enough, and then must cope with the disappointment of not succeeding, or fully enjoying the experience. These dissonance moments remind me that I can’t rush his process. For the last three and a half years, many things were done for him, and now I find myself demanding things from him that, until now, were never his responsibility. Is he capable? Of course, he is. But it takes time. And it would be so much easier just to do things for him—especially when my to-do list is already overwhelming. Yet, this is my lesson: to pause, to practice patience, to give him the space to learn.

Instead of getting frustrated, I choose to see this as an opportunity. A chance to slow down, to let go of control, and to embrace the discomfort of change. The challenge here isn’t just about Asaf—it’s about me and my ability to let him take the lead in his own life.

One of the hardest shifts for me has been dinner. My other kids can be told to make something for themselves, or even cook for the family. But I can’t expect that from Asaf. So, instead of carrying all the weight myself, I am choosing to share the responsibility. Each child is taking on one dinner a week, and together, we are learning to function as a team. What could have been just another overwhelming task is becoming a moment of connection, growth, and support.

Then, there’s the adjustment of having a stranger, who doesn’t speak a word of Hebrew or English, move into my house. Asaf’s carer is incredible—calm, loving, and truly invested in his well-being. Communicating through Google Translate is torture at times, yet it’s also a powerful lesson in precision. I have to be crystal clear to ensure he understands me; and when we do find common ground, it’s incredible. Instead of seeing the language barrier as a limitation, I am choosing to view it as a lesson in patience, adaptability, and connection beyond words. 

I think Asaf has formed such a strong connection with Dill because he relates to his experience—the feeling of not being able to communicate at all with those around you.

When asked this week during his typing therapy if he wanted to say something to Dill, who was present at the session, he responded:

 "He's a great guy, I'm happy he's staying with me. He understands with or without words, and for me that's more important than anything." 

His deep compassion and ability to connect with the struggles of others never cease to amaze me.

There are also many moments when I talk, and there is no response—no visual sign that Asaf has understood. It’s a constant reminder to presume competence, even when I don’t get immediate validation. And yet, there are also moments when his response is so clear—when his whole face lights up, when excitement sparkles in his eyes, when his body and mind are in synchronization and he reacts effortlessly. Those moments fill me with joy.

My mind is constantly spinning, when i think about Asaf —his needs, his feelings, his progress, his future. It can be overwhelming at times. But I am so grateful to have an amazing partner who grounds me, who reminds me to slow down, to be present, to just breathe. 

Asaf’s happiness is my compass.

It's overwhelming, exhausting, and exhilarating all at once. I feel like I'm going through a deep transformation—both in my role as Asaf's mother, and in how I perceive my life. Every day brings new challenges, but also new insights and moments of connection that I never imagined possible.

I feared that Asaf wouldn't fit in with the afternoon activities for special needs individuals. Most of the participants either have Down syndrome or are cognitively impaired, while autism expresses itself differently. I worried whether they would be able to reach out to him, and if he would enjoy himself. But on Monday at the running club, he raced out of my car, full of excitement and joy. I don’t need Asaf to type to know how happy he is—it’s abundantly clear.

His siblings, too, have shown so much love and care for him, seeking ways to connect, whether by watching shows together or going for a walk. Seeing these relationships strengthen is one of the most beautiful and reassuring parts of this journey.And what I see every day is a happy child. People call me and tell me how much of a change they see in him; how his energy is different. This only strengthens my belief that bringing him home was the best decision I’ve ever made—even if it is challenging. As I told him this week, “I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.”

The only time I question my decision is when I feel overwhelmed by everything I need to take care of. There are moments when I wonder how I will find the time to do it all. But I firmly believe in making time for myself—it’s my battery filler. Juggling it all while ensuring I get enough rest, take breaks, and nourish myself makes all the difference in handling the challenges that come my way.

In the midst of uncertainty, I choose to find the light—the joy in Asaf’s smile, the warmth in his siblings’ love, the small victories that build into something greater. I choose to focus on the good rather than dwell on the challenges. I choose gratitude over frustration. I choose self-compassion over self-judgment. This journey is not easy, but it is full of meaning. Every day, I am learning, growing, and discovering a new way to be. And that, in itself, is enough.