For 52 years I avoided people, family, and emotional connection. Then Sara was born — and forced me to start over.
To change. One of the most frightening words in any language known to mankind. A bewitched word that can be especially frustrating for people who are fully aware of the flaws in their personality, yet feel powerless to do anything about them.
Almost everyone I know would like to change something about themselves — their behavior, habits, or choices — yet most people give up before they even begin, as if they are fighting some higher force they have no chance of defeating. What makes personal change feel so frightening and overwhelming, even when we desperately need it?
I suppose the answer lies in the fact that no one wants to fight against themselves — against who they truly are deep inside. Real change means admitting that something about us is broken, and that is never easy to face.
And yet, like every major challenge in life, once the spark and desire to improve truly exist within us, then eventually — no matter how difficult the process may be — with enough self-work, change becomes possible.
But I discovered the hard way that sometimes change is even more difficult when that spark simply doesn’t exist. When, deep down, we are actually comfortable with ourselves and see no real reason to become different. Still, there are moments in life when the universe forces change upon us, and we no longer have the luxury of refusing.
52 Years of Chosen Isolation
When I decided to become a father, I knew I was about to make the most radical change of my life.
No matter what happened, I refused to drag my future child into the pathetic and unhealthy lifestyle I had built for myself. Fifty-two years of obsessive loneliness and emotional isolation had to come to an end.
In previous posts I mentioned — though never fully explained — that certain events from my childhood turned me into someone almost completely disconnected from society. Since then, I spent most of my life in near-total isolation. No friends. No relationships. No love. Just me and my inferiority complex trapped between four walls.
The lifestyle I created taught me to enjoy only my own company, assisted by movies, TV shows, books, video games, and endless undefined laziness inside the house. Aside from work and Friday night dinners at my parents’ home, I barely left my apartment.
And honestly, I loved that life. I felt safe alone. I became addicted to the silence, the freedom, the empty apartment, and the fact that I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted.
The Apartment That Became My Fortress
My favorite part of life was the weekend.
Once Friday arrived, I rarely stepped outside. Every minute was dedicated to enjoying my private world inside the apartment.
Throughout the week, I would count the hours until the weekend finally arrived. That was when I truly came alive. Friday and Saturday recharged me for the coming week. As pathetic as it may sound, I genuinely struggled to imagine any other life for myself.
Every now and then, when my cousin fought with his girlfriend, he would pack a suitcase and temporarily move into my apartment. At first it happened every other weekend. Later, after they broke up, he lived with me for an entire month.
As you can probably imagine, it wasn’t easy for me. But since he was family, I gritted my teeth and endured it until the situation passed. Other than that, it was always just me and my small two-bedroom apartment — old and modest, but entirely mine.
That apartment was my kingdom, my perfect fortress protecting me from the world.
Why I Distanced Myself From My Own Family
I was never good with people.
I always felt that no one could truly be trusted, and that eventually everyone disappoints you — even the people closest to you.
The biggest problem with this isolated lifestyle was the pain it caused my immediate family. I rarely attended family gatherings, and even when I did, I usually left early. My emotional attachment to my apartment outweighed everything else, including family itself.
This hurt my sensitive mother the most. She deeply cherished family gatherings, while I dreaded them with all my heart. Not because of arguments. Not because of drama. I simply could not tolerate the entire “family experience.”
At times I felt like a complete outsider among people who literally shared my blood. I knew something inside me wasn’t normal, but I couldn’t escape the constant feeling of not belonging.
Whenever the house became noisy with my nieces and nephews running around, I would suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to return to my own solitude. Sometimes I would quietly leave early. Other times I simply wouldn’t show up at all.
Unlike my mother, the rest of the family eventually accepted it. They understood that this was simply who I had always been. They never stopped inviting me, though. They kept hoping that one day I would finally straighten myself out.
On my father’s side of the family, some relatives eventually cut ties with me completely because of my constant absence from family events. On my mother’s side, however, they always tried to keep the connection alive.
Becoming a Father Changed Everything
The moment I decided to become a father, I made a decision: the old Yaniv had to disappear.
I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but for some reason I believed I could change. After all, there is probably no force on Earth capable of changing a person more than a baby.
My surrogacy journey lasted nearly four years, which gave me plenty of time for intense self-work. I wanted my future child to receive a completely different version of me — a better one.
Slowly, step by step, I began rebuilding my life.
I established one absolute rule for myself: my daughter Sara would live a normal life, completely different from the one her father had lived. And ironically, I — of all people — would become the one teaching her how important friendships are, and how important family connections can be.
Learning to Become Social at 52
I started visiting my younger sister more often. She lives nearby with her family. One visit became another, and another, until eventually I became part of the household — the way family is supposed to feel.
My relationship with my nieces and nephews improved as well. One day, they would become Sara’s cousins. They were surprised by the change in me, especially because at that stage only my mother knew about the surrogacy process.
In addition, because of Sara’s upcoming birth, I left my old workplace, which was very far from home, and found a new job much closer to where I lived.
And there, almost unbelievably, I became social. I smiled more. I stayed in touch with coworkers outside working hours. I bought birthday gifts. I even attended social events.
To my surprise, the transformation wasn’t as difficult as I had expected. I knew I was doing it for the most important purpose imaginable: my daughter’s future.
Sara needed a stable father. A normal father — painfully normal. And she was going to have one.
And honestly, I enjoyed the new life I was building. The enormous wall surrounding me for decades slowly began to collapse, brick by brick. I discovered that the world wasn’t as terrible as I had convinced myself it was, and that I was actually capable of enjoying human connection.
The old Yaniv slowly faded away as Sara’s birth approached.
Then Sara Was Born
When Sara was born, I suddenly found myself surrounded by overwhelming love and support — both from my family and from coworkers.
For the first time in my life, I no longer felt invisible. I became social. Family-oriented. A legitimate member of the human race who no longer needed isolation in order to feel safe.
My relationship with my sister became especially important.
Not only is she Sara’s only aunt in Israel — since my middle brother lives abroad — but she is also Sara’s legal guardian in case I am no longer here for her someday.
My sister has a large home, a loving husband, three children, and two grandchildren — both close to Sara’s age. For a single father raising an only child, knowing Sara will grow up alongside family members her own age feels like a prayer answered.
The Moment I Realized I Had Truly Changed
My sister understands how important all of this is, so every Saturday she invites Sara and me to her house.
Out in the yard, she spreads a colorful play mat covered with toys. Then I watch seven-month-old Sara playing with the other babies — and I struggle not to cry.
Tears of happiness. Happiness because of the family I can give Sara. Happiness because I managed to change my life before it was too late.
I — the man who once spent entire weekends hiding at home watching movies and playing PlayStation and Xbox for hours without stepping outside — now spend my Saturdays in my sister’s backyard, focused entirely on Sara’s future instead of my broken past.
My daughter will not grow up to become like her father. I will not allow that to happen.
I will use the painful lessons of my own life to make sure Sara never experiences the same loneliness I did.
A New Life at 52
A baby represents the purest form of a new beginning.
And somehow, at 52 years old, I managed to hitch myself to Sara’s wagon — and begin my life all over again because of her.
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Read Next
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