When people ask why I stayed in Israel, I tell them the truth:
because my children call this place home.

Not the palm trees or the sea or the cafes I love in Carmel Center.
Not the warmth of Shabbat streets or the way the sky turns copper over Haifa Bay.

I stayed because two little humans sleep here, dream here, grow here.
And in 2024, when my marriage quietly collapsed, I realized something no ulpan ever mentions:

Divorcing in Israel isn’t just the end of a relationship — it’s the test of who you want to be in this country.

And as a woman who wasn't born here, with an Israeli husband and two school-age kids, the system didn’t just ask who I was.
It asked whether I belonged.
Whether I could stay strong without raising my voice.
Whether I could protect my children without turning bitterness into my personality.

I came from Ukraine long before war tore it open.
When I landed in Israel, my Hebrew was a disaster and my optimism was unstoppable. I learned to argue at shuk stalls, to drink nana tea after dinner, to love loud voices and sea wind.

Marriage felt like certainty.
Children made it feel permanent.

Until it wasn’t.

There wasn’t betrayal or screaming; just two people who reached different versions of tomorrow.

When we decided to separate, friends said what friends always say:
“Adults separate, children stay loved.”

But they weren’t asked to figure out how to navigate the Rabbinical Court with trembling hands.
They didn’t have to worry about custody norms in a country where tradition sits next to modern law.
They didn’t wake up at 4:00am panicking about legal terminology in Hebrew.

I did.

And I understood:
you can love your kids endlessly and still lose ground if you don’t know the system.

A courtroom here is not a movie.
Nobody bangs a gavel.
Nobody gasps.

Instead — paperwork, timelines, judges who don’t care how poetic your heartbreak is.
They want facts, schedules, cooperation plans, parenting proof.

Israel respects parents who show up — not parents who cry.

The first hearing I sat through, I remember thinking:
Please don’t let my accent make me look weak.

My husband grew up speaking this legal air.
I was still learning to understand the announcements on Egged buses.

I found him online — an unexpected island of calm on a stressful night:
https://katsmanlaw.co.il/

Later I found the Hebrew version too, for friends who asked:
https://katsmanlaw.co.il/he/

He didn’t speak like a salesman.
He didn’t talk down to me.
He didn’t romanticize the fight or make promises he couldn’t defend.

He listened.
And then said one sentence that made the fear stop buzzing in my ribcage:

“We don’t fight for victory. We build for your children’s stability.”

I didn’t need a warrior.
I needed someone who understood Israel’s legal heartbeat and could translate my motherhood into legal language.

He did.

The Rabbinical Court isn’t a place for emotional storms.
It’s a place for structure and respect.

My lawyer prepared me for every question, every nuance — the symbolism, the silence, the body language.

He reminded me:

• be firm, not hostile

• be truthful, not desperate

• be present, not reactive

He explained my rights as a mother.
He explained the process of custody evaluation.
He didn’t let me fall into the emotional traps that so many women fall into when the system feels intimidating.

And he reminded me that in Israel, motherhood isn’t assumed — it’s demonstrated.

So I demonstrated.

There was a moment I will never forget.

We were reviewing custody plans and he suddenly asked:

“Where will you live long-term? What happens to the kids if something happens to you?”

I stared at him, stunned.
My world was still shaking — planning decades ahead felt surreal.

But he guided me gently:
protect custody now
and secure the future too

Later, sitting alone at night, I opened this link he sent:
https://katsmanlaw.co.il/vyigrannye-dela/semejnoe-pravo-izrailya-razvody-razdel-imushestva-alimenty-opeka-nad-detmi-nasledstvo

Not to compare stories — but to remind myself the law can protect women like me.

And it did.

No cheers, no applause, no cinematic catharsis.
Just a calm judicial voice:

“Shared custody.
Stable parenting structure.
Support of both parents is in the children's best interest.”

The world didn’t explode into fireworks.
But my lungs finally worked again.

In Israel, you don’t win custody.
You earn trust.

And I did.

Now?
School lunches, bicycle helmets, coffee at the beach after morning drop-offs.
Hebrew homework battles.
Messy hair mornings and late bus sprints.

Divorce didn’t make me smaller.
It made me rooted.

Not in someone else’s story — in my own.

Listen carefully:
You can do this.

Even if your Hebrew shakes.
Even if you feel foreign.
Even if you don’t know where to begin.

Start here — it’s where I did:
https://katsmanlaw.co.il/

Sometimes the strongest thing you can say is:
“I need help. Please guide me.”

There is dignity in that.

And Israel respects dignity more than perfection.