The Fire Didn’t Break Me. It Built Me.

I’ve always heard that I have amazing resilience.

I used to just blow that off.

I can’t afford to give up, not at this stage of my life. So when someone said, “Jeff, you’re resilient,” my gut response was always, “What other choice do I have?”

It wasn’t until I came to Germany that I finally understood the meaning of the word.

“The capacity to withstand or to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.”

Resilience is so much more than a definition. It’s a pulse. A quiet fire that doesn’t die out, even when everything else does.

I’ve always thought of Germany through the lens of history, Jews are still here, and the Nazi party is long since gone. But standing here, I see it differently. I see the resilience of the German people. They didn’t erase their history; they embraced it. They faced it. In 1945, every major city looked nothing like it does today.

A couple of nights ago, the temperature dropped to the upper thirties. We were driving to our next city when I heard from the front seat:

“Okay Jeff, you’re on.”

“For what?” I asked.

Then came that look. The one that says you know exactly what we mean.

“THE Soup.”

Let me back up. I make a pretty damn good matzo ball soup. My inner circle talks about it every time I make it. And if someone’s left out, they’ll find out and make damn sure I include them next time.

Only this time, I’m not in the U.S. I’m in Germany.

Thank goodness I packed the most important ingredient, matzo meal. All I needed now was a chicken and some mirepoix. We stopped at Aldi. I didn’t find a whole chicken, but I found enough to make it work. I rendered the fat from the thighs and legs, built my layers of flavor, and let the broth come to life.

My philosophy is simple:

The more flavorful the broth, the better the matzo balls.

And as I prepped, moving through that familiar dance, the “I’m about to make a dish that hugs someone’s soul” dance, I forgot where I was for a moment.

I used to think of Germany as a place of darkness. A place that robbed millions of their lives just for being who they were. 1.5 million children under 13, my daughter’s age. And here I was, in Schwalmtal, making an iconic Jewish soup.

It might as well have been called Resilience Soup.

Dachau flashed in my mind.

The gas chambers. The ovens. The hooks where they hung prisoners.

And yet, we are still here.

I’m not religious. Hell, I’m tattooed seven times over (and I’m planning more because there’s still too much blank canvas left). But for me, resilience isn’t about faith. It’s about survival. It’s about how, through every hit I’ve taken in life, I still find the sliver of light to hold onto.

When I speak about mental health, I show a slide, nine faces. Nine people close to me who took their own lives. Eight of them are family. That image hits me every single time.

I’ve moved my family to help others only to be buried under the rubble of my own life.

I’ve been suffocated by trauma.

I’ve stood on the edge of ending it all.

And yet, I cook.

I dance in the kitchen.

I find that small light and push forward.

A few days ago, we hiked over 1,200 feet up to Neuschwanstein. That might not sound like much to some, but for a guy from flat-ass Florida,  where “mountains” are trash dumps, that was my Everest.

My heart was pounding at 145 bpm. My brain kept whispering, “You’re 54. What are you trying to prove?”

I wasn’t proving anything. I just wanted to see the damn castle.

Then came the death bridge. Stairs. Of course.

But something in me whispered, “You got this.”

Step by step, I crossed that bridge. I looked left and there it was, the castle. And in that moment, every ounce of pain, sweat, and self-doubt was worth it.

Cooking the soup in Germany taught me something real.

Resilience isn’t just something people say about me.

It’s something I live.

Every damn day.

I keep pushing forward to be the best version of who I am, not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary.

What has food taught you about your resilience?