On April 21, 2022, I boarded a one-way flight to Israel with my dog, Daisy. I’d been trying to make the move since I was twenty, but life kept interfering—jobs, degrees, people who needed me to stay. Each time I visited, though, I was reminded how much I wanted to live here.
Leaving this time meant walking away from my sister, who had just had a baby, and from my parents, who were still healthy but getting older. It felt selfish, maybe even reckless.
By the time I sat down on the plane, I was exhausted but exhilarated. Daisy lay at my feet, half-asleep. The ultra-Orthodox men in our row refused to sit near a dog, so there was a shuffle of seats until I ended up beside a quiet Russian immigrant who didn’t seem to mind. We nodded at each other; she smiled.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, the cabin lights dimmed. Daisy’s breathing was slow and steady. I remember thinking—not joy, not pride—just a clear sense of having crossed a line. After so many years of trying to leave, I finally had.
That was it. No revelation, just the plain fact of being in the air, headed toward the life I’d been promising myself for more than a decade
