My Story: How Everything Began

Before I was a storyteller, I was a girl surviving a story I never asked to be part of.

I was born in Israel, in a home filled with my mother’s laughter, perfume, and the sound of movies playing on the TV. She was vibrant, warm, and endlessly creative. She dressed with flair, lived with heart, and loved me with everything she had. My mother was my compass. My safety. My world.

Then, I lost her.

I was twelve years old when she passed away, and nothing in my world ever looked the same again. Her death cracked the sky open. It silenced every joyful sound I had known. And just a year later, what was meant to be a family vacation to America turned into something permanent. My father had secretly remarried, and our return ticket to Israel disappeared with that truth. I was uprooted, stripped of familiarity, and placed in a life I didn’t choose.

Suddenly, I was in Miami—with new siblings, a new language I didn’t understand, and a stepmother who didn’t feel like home. People surrounded me, but I felt utterly alone. There was no one to teach me how to dress. No one to guide me through the storm of adolescence.

The language barrier hit me hard. I didn’t speak a word of English. I sat in classrooms feeling invisible, trapped in my mind, unable to connect. My dad and I started taking English lessons together. It was one of the few things that bonded us in those days. Years later, we would take another unlikely journey together—riding rented Harley-Davidsons through Miami, father and daughter reclaiming freedom in our way.

But at twelve, freedom felt far away.

I tried to fit in. I tried to behave. But the pain inside me had no outlet. I felt misunderstood, mislabelled, and misplaced. The grief, the confusion, the change—they all collided until one day, it exploded. A fight with my stepmother turned into screams, fear, and a kitchen knife in my hand, not out of violence, but out of desperation.

The next day, I was in a psychiatrist’s office.

I didn’t fully understand what they were saying. But eventually, I realised what they were recommending: a closed institution for troubled kids. I was sent away. Again and again.

Those places weren’t for healing. They were for control. I was drugged, strapped down, and locked in. Told I was sick. Broken. A diagnosis to be managed.

And yet—something in me held on.

A flicker. A whisper. A quiet defiance.

Even in the darkest rooms, I remembered movies. I remembered stories that told me that even the most broken beginnings could still lead to powerful endings. That ember inside me—that stubborn spark—I know now it came from Mum. Her strength. Her fire. Her love. It carried me when I could barely stand.

Years later, I built a new life. I became a graphic designer. A photographer. A mother. I moved to the UK with my husband and daughter, carrying more than just suitcases—I had every scar, every lesson, every flicker of resilience.

Now, I’m writing it all down. For the girl I used to be. For anyone who’s ever been told their story doesn’t matter. For those who survived the impossible, and still wonder if they’re allowed to dream.

Journey in Three Suitcases is more than a book. It’s my soul on paper.

And maybe, it’s also a mirror for someone else.

If you’re here, reading this, thank you. I see you. And I hope, in some way, my story helps you feel a little less alone.

In the end, healing is about connection, understanding, and growth. By building a supportive community, you can find strength in your journey and create a brighter future. Remember, every step you take is a step toward healing. Embrace the journey, and let the power of community guide you.

With love,

Lee