There’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately—not as a therapist, but as a Jewish mother walking her children through a world that feels increasingly hostile. The question is this: What holds us together when the world around us seems determined to tear us apart?

I asked it again when I saw the news: Two Israeli Embassy staffers murdered in Washington, DC. The headlines were muted. The response even more so. And what haunted me most wasn’t just the violence—it was how eerily predictable it felt. As someone who studies indoctrination and its psychological impact, I’ve watched the buildup: the normalization of antisemitic tropes, the rewriting of Jewish history in the name of “justice,” the way propaganda has slipped, almost undetected, into classrooms and newsfeeds.

When the murder happened, it felt like watching a fire you’d long warned about finally catch. This is the end result of moral disengagement and radicalization.

That’s the other weight we carry. The pressure to downplay our pain. To constantly have to justify or explain our history as though it’s fiction. To tolerate comparative suffering as if it’s a moral test. We are often asked to justify our trauma in a way no other community would be. And when we name what’s happening, we’re met with suspicion or accusation.

It’s a double-edged knife. One side cuts into our dignity. The other into our safety.

And still—we rise.

We begin by understanding that resilience is not the absence of pain. Jewish resilience has never meant denial. It means remembering who we are even when others try to tell our story for us. It’s the quiet power of lighting candles in defiance of darkness. It’s asking questions when others demand silence. It’s teaching our children that being a Jew is not a liability—it’s a legacy.

But let’s also be honest. Resilience doesn’t mean we’re strong all the time. It means we take one step forward, even when we feel exhausted or overwhelmed. It means finding light, not because the darkness isn’t real, but because we refuse to let it be all there is.

As a trauma therapist, I’ve seen the toll this moment is taking. Burnout isn’t just emotional fatigue—it’s a form of spiritual erosion. Constant vigilance. Endless grief. The weight of generational memory on top of daily threat.

So how do we care for ourselves without going numb?

Here’s what I tell clients—and try to practice myself: We start small:

• Mindset is survival. Resilience begins in how we frame our reality. That doesn’t mean false hope—it means anchoring ourselves in meaning, in purpose, in identity.
• Gratitude is resistance. Not because everything is fine, but because not everything is broken. It’s not about ignoring pain. It’s about choosing not to drown in it. Name one thing each day that nourishes your spirit. Let that be a thread you hold onto.
• Community is protection. Healing happens through connection. Jewish life has always been about community. Find the people that you can lean on, share grief and share the joy.
• Spiritual practice restores. Ritual, music, learning, prayer—whatever connects you to something ancient and sacred. Make space for it. It’s not a luxury. It’s oxygen.

This isn’t the first time our people have walked through fire. And it won’t be the last. But fire doesn’t only destroy. It also forges.

Let this be our answer to a fractured world: not just to endure, but to live. With clarity. With courage. With the audacity to choose light again.

Malka Shaw, LCSW, is a trauma therapist, speaker, and founder of Kesher Shalom Projects, which offers trauma-informed education at the intersection of mental health, antisemitism, and Jewish identity. Learn more at www.malkashaw.com or follow @malka.shaw.lcsw.