At the end of the last chapter, I shared how I was finally beginning to separate myself from Chana’s ups and downs, and how I was able to be present for our son’s bar mitzvah, aufruf, and wedding.
They were beautiful. It was a relief to step into something joyful.
For a while, it felt like things were turning.
Chana did well in the bayit meyazen. She stayed for almost five months. She learned, she grew, she began taking more responsibility for herself – her thoughts, her choices, the consequences that followed.
After that, she worked in a gan. Then she became a madricha in another bayit meyazen.
She even lived on her own.
From the outside, it looked like progress.
But I learned something important.
Looking okay and being okay are not the same thing.
When I would visit her apartment, I saw what didn’t fit the picture.
The sink full of dishes. The piles of laundry. The empty fridge. The takeout bags stuffed into the garbage.
Each time, there was a reason. She had just come home from the hospital. She was busy. Things had piled up.
And each time, I wanted to believe it.
But the truth was there, quietly, every time I walked in.
Something still wasn’t stable.
Then her body began to give out.
A ruptured appendix. A bowel obstruction. Severe migraines that landed her back in the hospital.
It felt like everything she had been holding in emotionally was now showing up physically.
She’s been through the wringer.
We all have.
A few months ago, we made the decision – with her psychiatrist – that she needed to come home.
Cleaning out her apartment broke something in me.
The clothes. The bags. The things she couldn’t throw out.
I stayed in bed for a day afterward.
It wasn’t just about the apartment.
It was about what it represented.
Another version of “she’s okay” that wasn’t really okay.
Having her home is… complicated.
My younger kids love it.
I love having her close.
And at the same time, I see how much time she spends in her room. The door closed. Hours on her phone.
This is not the version of “better” I imagined.
But I’ve also learned something else.
There isn’t one version of better.
There is just… where we are.
Recently, we spoke about a structured two-year program – therapy, life skills, a path toward college.
She doesn’t want it.
She feels like it will hold her back.
I look at her life right now and wonder what “moving forward” actually means.
She is supposed to be studying, but she barely goes to class. Barely studies.
Some days she goes out. Other days she disappears into her room.
Sometimes she cooks.
Sometimes she doesn’t.
Recently she told me she wants to delay college for a year.
And I find myself asking questions I don’t have answers to.
Will she start?
When?
What will her life look like?
I don’t know.
And that may be the hardest part of all of this.
Not the crisis.
Not the hospital.
Not even the pain.
But the not knowing.
At the beginning of this journey, I thought that if we did everything “right,” we would get to a place where things would be clear. Stable. Resolved.
That’s not what happened.
Instead, we got here.
A place where things are better.
And also, not better.
Where she is okay.
And also, not okay.
Where I am learning, slowly, to live with that contradiction.
At the end of sharing this story, I can’t offer a clean ending.
I can’t tell you that everything worked out.
What I can say is this:
We are still here.
We are still trying.
And I am no longer waiting for a perfect resolution to feel like we are moving forward.
Sometimes forward is uneven.
Sometimes it looks like a step back.
And sometimes it looks like sitting in the uncertainty and choosing to stay anyway.
But I have learned something else along the way.
We are not alone.
So many parents are struggling with their children in ways that are hidden, complicated, and painful. Does knowing that make it easier? No.
Even when we know others exist, we are each still living on our own islands, shaped by experiences that are uniquely ours.
And yet, over the course of sharing this story, I have heard from so many people who felt seen in it. Who felt less alone because of it.
That matters. Even if one person out there feels heard, understood…validated, I will know that sharing our story was worth it.
I am honored and humbled that I was given the opportunity to share this.
Thank you.
I want to wish you all a meaningful Pesach, and that we each find our own moments of geulah – even in places where things are still unfinished.