Monsters in the closet, fears of the dark—these are the childhood worries we generally know how to soothe. With patience, love, and time, we help our children navigate these fears, guiding them back to safety, where imagination can be tamed and reality can bring comfort.
But what happens when the monsters step out of the closet and into the real world? When the ordinary fears of separation collide with a terrifying reality—where both children and adults confront the unimaginable, even the possibility of being taken hostage? What happens when the bedtime whispers of "you're safe" falter because the threats outside feel all too real?
Since October 7th, parenting in Israel has entered an entirely new reality. We are no longer simply calming the typical worries of childhood, and many are struggling to make room for the ordinary anger which may now feel harder to express.
With or without a war, every day brings the normal frustrations of parenting: irritation at a tantrum, frustration at bedtime resistance, annoyance over spilled milk; together with the expected frustrations of childhood: upset at rules, or anger over feeling powerless. Usually, these moments of anger resolve well enough with repair and understanding. But how do we make room for these ordinary emotions when we’re surrounded by the extraordinary? When sirens wail, when loss feels endless, and when tomorrow remains uncertain?
How does a child express frustration at a parent about to leave for Miluim, not knowing when they will return? How does a parent feel frustration toward their child in the fragile moments of bedtime, with the echoes of sirens lingering in the background? How do we hold on to the innocence of a playful water fight at the park when it echoes the battles being fought at our borders? How do we respond to sibling squabbles as just that—ordinary moments of rivalry—without projecting fears of irreparable harm or catastrophic loss? In times like these, the foundation that allows feelings to be expressed safely—consistency, predictability, and a sense of security—has been deeply shaken.
And then there is guilt. The guilt that creeps in when our responses feel too sharp, too big, shaped by the stress we carry. The guilt of not always being able to shield our children from the enormity of what’s happening. The guilt of trying to hold their world together while struggling to hold together our own.
Although we are facing extremely challenging times, I hold onto the hope that acknowledging that our worst fears have spilled into reality is the first step toward reclaiming our sense of balance. By naming feelings—our children’s and our own—we can begin to untangle phantasy from reality. We can remind ourselves, and help our children understand, that while play may sometimes mimic the chaos around us, it is not war. Slowly, step by step, we can try to rebuild emotional safety by validating their worries, sharing our own feelings appropriately, and creating a space for emotions to be spoken about so that they don’t need to be acted out.
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