The Only Way Out Is Through

I have a saying about the hardest parts of our lives, the challenges, pain, and emotions: The only way out is through.

When people ask why I moved to Israel, I usually give a long-winded answer. I talk about the culture, the genuine nature of the people, or my deepening spiritual connection to Judaism. But if I’m being honest, I had reached a breaking point. I had lost and suffered so much that I felt I had nothing left to lose. I think a portion of those who choose to move across the world, with no friends, no family, and especially those willing to do so in the middle of a war feel something similar: a desperate search for meaning. Ultimately, I knew that in order to become the person I wanted to be, to find the life I was searching for, that I had to come here to struggle.

I came here to grow—to throw myself into the deep end and be absolutely forced to swim. I realized that if you don’t make a conscious decision to put yourself on the harder path, you’ll keep choosing the easier one. That’s just human instinct; we run away, seek protection, or try to numb ourselves. I wanted to build a life where my only way forward was through.

Some part of me knew Israel would force me to grow in the ways I truly needed, because I struggle to expand in settings that make me uncomfortable. I struggle to speak up for myself, to ask for things, or to make friends. I battle with perfectionism and the fear of sounding stupid or being misunderstood. And I struggle to voice myself coherently when my feelings are bigger than my language.

I came here to struggle, to surrender, to be humbled, and humbled I certainly am.

At first, moving here brought up a lot of shame. I felt like I shrank because I was no longer in my comfort zone. I was embarrassed not to know Hebrew, embarrassed to be American, and embarrassed to be so different. Life here is simply harder; there are more daily challenges, and you will get trampled if you don’t stand your ground.

I didn’t have family or childhood friends to fall back on, so even though I had grown so much confidence in who I was, moving here felt like falling back to the bottom. I walked into rooms feeling small, unable to approach people or take up space. Every gathering with Tal’s friends or family left me crying. While he could exhale and relax into his own language, I felt starved for connection and frustrated that my personality felt trapped behind glass.

Just when I felt like I was finally gaining my footing, I chose to do my internship in a hospital—a setting that once again makes me feel out of place.

I don’t love hospitals. I believe they are the firefighters of the mental health world, putting out fires with medicine and crisis stabilization, but often lacking the space for deep healing. I am a much more spiritual, “natural” person with a passion for deep therapy, creative art, and psychedelics. So, being inside a huge Israeli system where everyone speaks a different language and holds different frameworks makes me feel small, unseen, and lost.

But… that was the point.

I put myself in a place where my only way out was through. It was a crash course in learning how to speak up, how to remain myself in an uncomfortable setting, and how to stay present even when I wanted to hide.

Tal and I fought about it constantly. I spent nights crying, asking, “Why would I choose a place where I feel so different?” And he repeatedly told me: “That is precisely why you need it, Dani. You need to shine your light in the places that need it most.”

And he was right. Because yes, being in a “yummy” setting that values you, sees you, and praises you builds confidence. But what I’ve learned from being here is that nothing builds confidence like being in a setting that doesn’t do any of that… and still choosing to be yourself.

In my cartoon about the salmon, he feels the need to paint his scales to fit in with the crowd. It’s not until he leaves on his own journey that he finds himself—and eventually, finds others like him. But the sequel to that story is that once we find ourselves and realize we are enough, we can step back into environments that don’t suit us without coloring our scales.

True confidence isn’t just finding your tribe; it’s finding your way even when you are unseen, unheard, alone or misunderstood. It’s standing loud and proud amongst people who are entirely different and brining your truth there.

The whole time I have been here I have been fighting against the grain. My whole life I had this tendency to shrink when I felt different, to color my scales and try to swim with the other fish. But the whole point of being yourself is standing out, building bridges across worlds. We learn not from only being in environments where everyone is the same, but we learn from learning how to still show up as ourselves even in places and around people that are actually quite different.

I’m never going to be Israeli. I may never be fluent in Hebrew. I may never feel completely “at home” here in the way someone born here does.

But that’s okay. Because once you find yourself, once you find even a few people who see you, you can be around anyone. Even people who don’t understand, people who might judge or people who disagree.

Your job isn’t to contort yourself into digestibility; it is to tell the truth of who you are.. Not just as a gift to people who already love you and understand you… But as a gift to the people who don’t.

Just today I was feeling sad that my writing and artwork doesn’t resonate with as many people as I would hope, but it does resonate with the people who are sensitive souls like myself. I told Tal, “Maybe I should just only share it with those people, like they actually can understand what I am saying and appreciate it.” And he told me, “Dani, don’t give up. Those are the spaces that need it the most.” Maybe I won’t be instantly rewarded, maybe I won’t ever know that I made a difference, but this is where my truths really need to live.

After I sat down to write this today, I went to go look at this week’s Torah portion. It’s called “Bo” which means “Come.”

If this Parsha is about leaving Egypt, why is it called Come? A classic read: God is inviting Moshe to enter Pharaoh’s inner chambers, into the place where power, fear, and control live. What it means is that liberation isn’t only escaping; it’s having the courage to walk into the tight places (מצרים / Mitzrayim, “narrowness”) and bring truth there.

I was in shock when I read this. I had literally been working on this piece starting at the beginning of this week without having any clue how related it was to the Parsha of this week.

Spiritual liberation isn’t only leaving. It’s entering the place you avoid, and bringing truth there.

In life, it’s easy to forget to stop and reflect. Our instinct is to keep pushing, keep comparing ourselves to others, to try to “not let things get to us”… and then judge ourselves when they do. We feel frustrated with our own tenderness, like pain is proof we’re failing. We forget that when we struggle, when we feel pain and discomfort, it’s actually a sign we are growing. And when you’re inside it, it’s hard to even understand what you’re going through because you’re just trying to survive the feeling of it.

So many times I feel bad, sad, alone, and I forget that I’m literally stretching in all areas of my life. I compare myself to Tal, to people around me, and I feel small… and I forget how far I’ve come.

I’ve gotten myself through so much to get here. I’ve stepped into myself. I’ve grappled with, and shed, years of pain. I’ve done so much inner work. At the beginning of this journey to Israel, I was still having panic attacks. I was still on mood-stabilizing medication. And still, I stepped on the plane and flew across the world to start a journey I knew I had to take anyway.

I no longer feel like a fragmented person, I just feel like Dani. I’m actually doing the things I’ve always wanted to do and becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be. Despite… and also because it’s really hard. And I wouldn’t trade it for a thing.

It’s so important in life to stop and reflect. To look back, to let yourself feel the struggle and feel the pride, to cry tears of sadness and tears of pride, tears of frustration and tears of joy. That’s the piece that gives it meaning and makes it whole.

I guess I’ve always had this weird hunger for struggle. I’m someone who dealt with my fair share of suffering alone in my life and at a certain point I realized, the only way out of my suffering was diving into it. So I spent a lot of time alone taking mushrooms and diving right into my pain. It’s crazy because I think the ultimate resilience is taking a hero dose of mushrooms while you are in a lot of pain or emptiness, facing yourself, and somehow making it out the other side. I’m not advising just anyone to do it, it can definitely be destabilizing, but I do want to share more about my experiences and take on mushrooms because I believe so strongly in their healing ability and also ability to make us grow so much as human beings.

I think more than anything I have done, making it through those trips gave me such wisdom, such confidence in myself, such growth and resilience. I have cried rivers and shed mountains doing it and came out the other side feeling like the most authentic and aligned version of myself, seeing a peaceful kind of truth and connection with myself and others.

Mushrooms take away the ego and the defenses so we can just see reality. They pull us into reflection when we’d rather avoid it. And moving to Israel? Working in this hospital? It’s the exact same thing. It’s diving into the deep end. It is entering the narrow place.

We try so hard to hold it in, to avoid it, but that doesn’t allow room to get it out, release it, overcome it, be refreshed, build resilience and be ready to take on even more.

So I’ll leave you with this: What “narrow place” are you avoiding entering because it feels too scary, too hard, too much?

Maybe that is exactly where you need to go.

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