The last of the packing tape pulled away with a whine. Dalia dropped the heavy roll onto the floor and pressed the final box closed, feeling as if she had squashed the last breath from her chest along with it. This wasn’t how she thought her life would look at thirty-four—an empty apartment, dreams packed away, uncertainty settling thick around her shoulders. What if starting over was just another way to fail again?
The winter sun, weak and watery, slanted through the windows. Dalia sank down onto the bare floor, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the silence press in. It was tempting to stay right there, small and hidden, where nothing could touch her.
A glimmer caught her eye—a scrap of paper under the heater that must have fallen during packing. She crawled over and picked it up. It was a note from her mother, written years ago: “Be strong and of good courage. Hashem is with you wherever you go (Joshua 1:9).”
Dalia’s throat tightened. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, light but firm, as if she were sitting beside her. A lump welled up in her chest—not grief, not entirely. Something closer to yearning. For belief. For G‑d’s nearness not just when life was mapped and shining, but here, in the hollow ache of beginning again.
She pressed the note to her heart and closed her eyes. "Ribono shel Olam," she whispered, "I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this alone."
For a moment, nothing stirred. Then, as if the prayer had peeled something back, she heard it: children laughing outside. She rose and peered outside. Down on the sidewalk, two little boys chased each other, scarves flapping, one holding out a slightly crumpled daisy toward the other.
The sight tugged something loose inside her. Amid the cold and the uncertainty, life pulsed forward. The world spun faithfully on. Maybe… she just needed to take the first step, even if her hands trembled.
The next morning, wrapping her scarf snugly around her neck, Dalia hoisted her backpack and stood for a long moment looking at the apartment—each crack and creak strangely dear now. "Thank You for what was. Please help me with what will be," she whispered.
Outside, her breath misted in front of her, but the sun was stronger than the day before. At the corner bodega, the owner—a man she only knew as Mr. Brody—nodded to her with a smile. "Moving day?" he asked, noticing the pack. She nodded, blinking fast.
Without saying anything more, he slipped a warm, foil-wrapped roll into her hand. "On the house," he said gruffly.
Cradling the unexpected kindness, Dalia crossed the street. The city loomed noisy and wide before her, and her heart pounded with the raw, tender fear of it all. But somewhere deep beneath the fear, something—no, Someone—whispered strength into her bones.
She remembered another verse, suddenly and vividly: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you" (Isaiah 43:2). Water, she thought. Meant for carrying forward, not for drowning.
Her first steps were small, almost shaky. But each step found ground underfoot. Each step was a promise kept.
By the time she turned the corner, she was smiling—small, soft, but true. She wasn’t alone. She never had been.
She gripped the warm roll tighter and kept walking toward the life waiting ahead.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The last of the packing tape pulled away with a whine. Dalia dropped the heavy roll onto the floor and pressed the final box closed, feeling as if she had squashed the last breath from her chest along with it. This wasn’t how she thought her life would look at thirty-four—an empty apartment, dreams packed away, uncertainty settling thick around her shoulders. What if starting over was just another way to fail again?
The winter sun, weak and watery, slanted through the windows. Dalia sank down onto the bare floor, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the silence press in. It was tempting to stay right there, small and hidden, where nothing could touch her.
A glimmer caught her eye—a scrap of paper under the heater that must have fallen during packing. She crawled over and picked it up. It was a note from her mother, written years ago: “Be strong and of good courage. Hashem is with you wherever you go (Joshua 1:9).”
Dalia’s throat tightened. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, light but firm, as if she were sitting beside her. A lump welled up in her chest—not grief, not entirely. Something closer to yearning. For belief. For G‑d’s nearness not just when life was mapped and shining, but here, in the hollow ache of beginning again.
She pressed the note to her heart and closed her eyes. "Ribono shel Olam," she whispered, "I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this alone."
For a moment, nothing stirred. Then, as if the prayer had peeled something back, she heard it: children laughing outside. She rose and peered outside. Down on the sidewalk, two little boys chased each other, scarves flapping, one holding out a slightly crumpled daisy toward the other.
The sight tugged something loose inside her. Amid the cold and the uncertainty, life pulsed forward. The world spun faithfully on. Maybe… she just needed to take the first step, even if her hands trembled.
The next morning, wrapping her scarf snugly around her neck, Dalia hoisted her backpack and stood for a long moment looking at the apartment—each crack and creak strangely dear now. "Thank You for what was. Please help me with what will be," she whispered.
Outside, her breath misted in front of her, but the sun was stronger than the day before. At the corner bodega, the owner—a man she only knew as Mr. Brody—nodded to her with a smile. "Moving day?" he asked, noticing the pack. She nodded, blinking fast.
Without saying anything more, he slipped a warm, foil-wrapped roll into her hand. "On the house," he said gruffly.
Cradling the unexpected kindness, Dalia crossed the street. The city loomed noisy and wide before her, and her heart pounded with the raw, tender fear of it all. But somewhere deep beneath the fear, something—no, Someone—whispered strength into her bones.
She remembered another verse, suddenly and vividly: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you" (Isaiah 43:2). Water, she thought. Meant for carrying forward, not for drowning.
Her first steps were small, almost shaky. But each step found ground underfoot. Each step was a promise kept.
By the time she turned the corner, she was smiling—small, soft, but true. She wasn’t alone. She never had been.
She gripped the warm roll tighter and kept walking toward the life waiting ahead.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
