Daughter of Israel

T he air outside is icy as I arrive at Ben-Gurion airport on a Friday morning. Pushing my stroller with one hand I’m trying not to crash my luggage trolley with the other.

I hadn’t planned this trip. In fact months ago I deliberately decided against it when we received the invitation to attend the family simchah. The event promised to be a rare and momentous family reunion from three continents; a gathering of cousins who hadn’t seen each other in decades — or ever. I was desperate to attend. But unsure how I’d feel only a few weeks postpartum I prudently decided it wasn’t an option.

Yet when my daughter was just a few weeks old I questioned my decision. I was overwhelmed from the difficult birth the physical exhaustion the emotional shock of caring for a teeny human being. Stuck at home all day I felt isolated. I was struggling to adjust to my new reality.

As the date of the simchah approached I felt heartbroken to be missing such a meaningful occasion. But as much as I wanted to go I was terrified of the what-ifs of actually doing it — traveling alone with a screaming newborn managing on little sleep dealing with the freezing cold.