If you really pay attention and observe children closely, you’ll notice they often make strange, spontaneous movements – stretching their backs or legs, twisting, or fidgeting for no obvious reason. Medically, it can be explained: when energy builds up in certain parts of the body, especially around the chakras, the body needs to move in order to let that energy flow. It’s not usually conscious -it’s like a built-in mechanism we all share.
But over time, many people lose this instinct. Especially those who spend years in factories, offices, or stuck behind screens. Life schedules, stress, and mental conditioning all play a role. Some people, especially those who stay unaware or disconnected, become zombie-like – emotionally flat, less alive.
That’s often the point where the body begins to suffer – not just because of physical inactivity, but due to the apathy that creeps in as the inner fire of life dims.
I became like that myself, but to early. Even though there were moments of joy, bursts of energy when I was outside the house, they were never enough to bring balance. It felt more like spikes of overload. My happiness wasn’t natural – it was more like a short time hyperactivity, not enough to let the energy flow where it needed to, for my body to grow. So, most of the time, I would be quiet, motionless, almost invisible. Then, there would be these short cycles of joy, usually when my stepfather wasn’t home. Just me, my mother, and my baby sister.
She was born when I was six. His daughter – but to me, she was simply my sister. I loved her with a pure heart, as if we shared the same mother and father. I didn’t care about bloodlines. I only cared that she would grow up with love.
I tried to protect her – to teach her to be good. I was actually grateful to have someone I could care for; someone I could share my love with. But I was also afraid – afraid that she would witness the same darkness I did, without the bright beginning I was lucky to have. I had at least three and a half years of joy before it all changed. She was born right into the storm.
Being born directly into that kind of madness, I was afraid she would suffer, and that the stress might shut her down. But perhaps my sister’s soul was more prepared for it. And because she was his daughter, his violence gradually became less visible in her presence. He held back more when she was around – unless she was outside or distracted in another room. Then, without warning, he would attack. But over time, the outbursts became less frequent – only surfacing when he was drunk and didn’t care about anyone or anything.
Looking back, I realize many of my fears about her witnessing all this were probably shaped by my own memories. I had something to compare it to. For me his behaviour clearly was violent, something deeply wrong. But for her, it was the only reality she knew. In a way, it became normal. She absorbed some of his patterns, too, in ways that showed up later in her own life. Her reactions to the world were so different from mine.
Whenever he was away, I tried to show her the beauty of life. I’d draw for her, let her laugh and explore life outside the house. I tried to teach her how to be calm, quiet the mind and approach everything with love – how to put worries aside and focus on the good. Even in chaos and stress situations.
The Growth Beyond Fear
Years passed, and eventually I finished the 8th grade. I was about 16 years old when I made the decision to move out. I had passed the entrance exam for an art school in the provincial centre, the city of Zhytomyr. That September, I moved there and began my studies. The program was meant to last three years until graduation.
After about a year or a year and a half of studying there, I visited home and ran into some of my old classmates. They were shocked by how much I had grown; I became about 15 centimetres taller since they last saw me. I had never grown like that before. Only later did I begin to understand why.
When you live in a calm environment, where danger feels distant – even if it’s not your true home – your body can finally relax. You can sleep through the night without fear, without the same thoughts looping endlessly in your head. And when that happens, your energy isn’t wasted on survival. It goes into growth. It goes into healing. It becomes available to support your true development. For me, this was obvious. It was the first time my body had been free enough to grow.
Eventually, my mother told me that we were moving to Israel.
From my mother and my sister, I have learned that the abuse was over, during those last years he had become quieter, and they no longer seemed to be upset. On one hand, I was excited, a new light of adventure sparked inside me, on the other hand, I still didn’t trust, and I didn’t want to return to living together. Something inside resisted, but my desire for a new life was stronger. And of course, I didn’t want to stay behind, alone in Ukraine. Israel in those days felt like a dream – almost like America. A place completely different from the greyness I had known. So, I packed, and we flew.
As soon as we started our new life in Israel, I found way to run away. I began studying Hebrew at the kibbutz – somewhere far from my parents’ home. I kept studying until I received my army draft notice. Despite my broken Hebrew, I pushed myself to join one of the most elite combat units – Sayeret Givati. It’s in some ways similar to the Navy SEALs in the U.S.
I passed all the tests – physical, mental, IQ – and was accepted. During those three years of service, I completed many demanding courses, which not only improved my Hebrew but also reignited something within me: the spark of adventure and the desire to live, to explore and to prove my worth – to the world, but mostly to myself.
After my military service, I was invited to join a special police force. But first, I travelled briefly to China and visited the Shaolin Temple. That trip brought new excitement and inspiration. It reminded me of my deeper nature – something beyond survival or proving worth.
During my trip, I had a profound moment. As I climbed the stairs to the main hall of the temple, where people were lighting candles and incense, offering prayers. Sitting on the steps was a very old man, with white hair and a long white beard – just like one of those Shaolin masters from the movies. As I passed by him, he suddenly grabbed my hand and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ I told him I was looking for some answers. He pointed to my chest and said, ‘For that, you don’t need to travel so far.’ At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but those words stayed with me.
I have returned to Israel and passed the highly competitive exams for the elite police unit and reached many goals on my way. Those years were proof that nothing is impossible. But despite these achievements, I still felt a quiet ache in my chest, as if I were chasing something I had yet to find.
During my time in the police, I began to feel a deep need to express my artistic nature. Though I enjoyed the skill and power I had gained – handling any weapon in any situation – my creative soul felt caged. Even before I officially left, my commander, hearing I planned to open a tattoo studio, asked me to paint murals on two large walls at the base. As soon as I finished, I left and opened my first tattoo shop in Tel Aviv, named New Creation.
It was a great success. and after one year, I opened a second shop. I felt I could achieve anything – except, perhaps, love… and my mother’s happiness. That sense of failure still followed me.
Despite external success, something was missing. I felt a hole in my chest – a deep inner ache. It was as if something vital was missing… some truth about life, or about me. I knew, somewhere deep inside, that without this lost piece, I was just copying others, walking someone else’s path. I had forgotten my true self long ago, and no amount of material success could fill that void. Without knowing who I truly was, even prestige and wealth felt like a waste of time. My ego was living, but my soul was not.
The Offering
Somewhere during those tattoo shop days, a friend brought me a Zen book – I don’t remember the title. I started reading it, and in the middle, there was a passage that struck me. It said something like this:
“If you want to know the true purpose of life, don’t ask another person – not even a guru. Their answer will always be shaped by their perspective, their knowledge, or their ego. It will never be the answer. For questions like who am I, why am I here, what is the meaning of life, you must direct them to a higher source. And to show you’re serious, you must offer something of value – make a true sacrifice. Then you wait, until the answer comes.”
It wasn’t exactly worded like that, but that was the essence.
That night, I found myself in the studio, watching the people around me – everyone laughing, drinking, happy. But I was just pretending. I couldn’t feel it. I kept thinking: Why are they so happy? Don’t they know we’re all going to die? Death is the only thing that’s 100% guaranteed. Everything else in life is 50/50 at best. But no one really thinks about that. Everyone imagines death is far away. But when it comes, it always comes now. The moment of departure is always this moment.
And what if there’s nothing after that – if this life is all there is – then what’s the point of pretending?
So, I left the studio and decided to meditate on the question. I went to the beach that night, asking myself, what do I truly want to know? And how can I prove I’m serious enough to receive an answer – if there even is a higher source?
Back then, I didn’t believe in anything. Like most people today, I’d been raised to trust only the material world. If I couldn’t touch it, it wasn’t real.
But still, I asked myself: What’s the most valuable thing I have in this life, the life itself? I thought about: if I will sacrifice my own life, and if there’s no continuation after death, then I would never receive the answer.
So, I asked again: What’s the second most important thing I have? It was clear. It was my material base, my business, my tattoo shop.
So, I made my decision. That morning, straight from the beach, I went to the shop. I told my partner – the friend I had trained and brought in as a 50/50 business partner – that the business was now entirely his. I was letting it all go. This was my offering to the unknown. My sign of sincerity. My signal to the higher source.
Then I left. I went back to the beach, and I waited.
I waited for an answer – for a year and a half.
During that time, I lived disconnected from everyone and everything. I survived off the leftovers from the marketplace after it closed, picking up apples or oranges at the end of the day. Around 3 PM, Krishna devotees would bring vegetarian food to the park for the homeless, it was more than enough for me. I showered using outdoor beach pipes in the summer, and in winter, whatever toilet tap I could find. I slept in abandoned houses across Tel Aviv or just on the sand.
Every day and every night, I waited.
And as for the answer I received… that will be the next chapter.
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