On the Brink of Total War: How to Stay Calm When the Ground Trembles Beneath You

Book Summary

📘 Book Title:
On the Brink of Total War: How to Stay Calm When the Ground Trembles Beneath You

📍 About the Book:
In the midst of a military assault by Israel and the United States on Iran, as sirens and explosions tear through the sky, this book emerges as a beacon of light in the darkness. On the Brink of Total War is a practical, psychological, and deeply human guide for all Iranians who seek to preserve their minds, calm their families, and make sound decisions during this unprecedented crisis.

📌 Key Features of the Book:

• Breathing and mindfulness techniques to manage shock and anxiety
• Guidance on how to speak to children and family members during wartime
• Physical and mental routines to maintain stability in the early days of conflict
• Simple, soothing psychological interpretations of political and military events
• An integration of psychology, intuition, and astrology for inner restoration

📈 Ideal For:
Anyone suffering from war-related anxiety, those searching for ways to remain patient and composed during chaotic times, and every Iranian who wants not only to survive but to walk through this storm with clarity of mind and strength of heart.

🔥 Why You Need to Read This Book Now:
Because no one knows what tomorrow will bring, but everyone can choose how to live today. This book is your map out of fear, mental breakdown, and helplessness. In a time when the world trembles, your inner calm becomes your most powerful asset.

🔍 Keywords:
War psychology book, staying calm during military attack, mental health in wartime, breathing techniques under fire, coping with anxiety after Israel attack, military assault on Iran, mindfulness in crisis, supporting family during war, patience in war, psychological guide for Iranians, Iran US Israel conflict, airstrike anxiety, astrology in conflict, mental exercises for wartime, how to control war-related stress

🛒 Get Your Copy Now and Build the Strongest Version of Yourself for the Hardest Days.
In a world where the future cannot be trusted, awareness, patience, and practice are your compass. Read this book—and do not let your light go out in the fire.

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Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs):

• What should I do when I hear explosions or sirens to avoid panicking?
• How do I explain to my child that a war has started without terrifying them?
• Why does my body shake or freeze after the attack?
• If our home becomes unsafe, how do I maintain psychological balance?
• How can I fall asleep in wartime when my mind won’t shut down?
• What exercises help stop my brain from playing out worst-case scenarios?
• How can I support my family emotionally when I myself am scared?
• Is this numbness and confusion normal? What should I do about it?
• Why are some people aggressive and angry after the attacks?
• How do I manage my thoughts during internet or communication blackouts?
• How do I deal with the feeling of emptiness or meaninglessness after war begins?
• What can I do to avoid falling for rumors and fake news?
• Does my anxiety affect my children? How can I prevent that?
• Why do I feel like I’ve lost all control and need to run?
• How can I build an inner refuge when everything outside is chaos?
• What routines help calm my mind and body in the days after the attacks?
• How can I mentally prepare for major decisions in the coming days?
• What can I write or practice right now to feel more grounded?
• How do I help people who have lost all hope?
• Is it really possible to have hope during war? What does true hope mean?

Author: Vahid Zekavati

Copyright: NLP Radio

Chapter One: The Moment the World Stood Still

Why are my hands shaking and no thought crossing my mind? Why, at the sound of the first explosion, can I neither run nor speak? This is the moment the world suddenly stopped—not just for me, but for millions of others. When the ground trembles beneath us, the mind stops leading. It only fears.

In such a moment, the body enters a state that is neither death nor life. They call it shock. No tears come, no screams—only a savage stillness. Time freezes inside us. Even the sound of our own voice fades. We float on the edge between being and not being.

From a psychological standpoint, this is natural. Our minds are not designed for such moments. They fear instability, flee from uncertainty. If your mind has frozen today, know this is a defense, not weakness. You are not broken, you are just absorbing a reality beyond reason.

Astrologically, Saturn and Pluto—symbols of collapse and rebirth—are now aligned over Iran. This is no accident. Cosmic energy also weighs on us. Yet just as every destruction is a beginning, today carries a hidden invitation: Wake up.

Acceptance is the first step of awakening. Unless you accept that it has happened, you can neither act nor find peace. Acceptance is not surrender—it is the acknowledgment of reality. Say: “The war has begun. I see this reality and I stay with it.”

You may ask how to be honest with yourself amid explosions. The answer is simple, though not easy: return to your body. Your body offers the truest signals. When your heart races, when cold sweat forms—know you are alive. There is still hope.

When the earth shook, perhaps you felt nothing mattered anymore. But that sense comes from the initial shock. The brain shuts down all non-survival functions. So if today you cannot decide or think clearly, don’t blame yourself. It is part of the natural mental response.

We are not born ready for war. But we can learn how to stay calm in chaos—not to become heroes, but to remain human. Humans who feel pain, yet are not buried by it.

Your inner child is trembling today. He needs someone to hold his hand and say, “I know you’re scared, but we’ll get through this.” That voice must rise from within you. You must soothe yourself. No one from the outside will come to save you.

Sometimes, calming down means simply breathing. Sitting quietly and counting your breaths. In crisis, the simplest acts are the most saving. If you don’t know what to do, take one deep inhale and one slow exhale. That is the beginning of peace.

If someone is beside you, just look at them. You don’t need words. Your calm presence is healing. In these historic hours, we need each other more than ever—even in silence, even with the touch of a hand.

The commander’s mind is one that doesn’t let wild emotions take control. It first accepts reality, then decides for survival. Right here, right now, you can train your mind—not with slogans, but through observation.

If your legs won’t carry you, sit. But ask your mind to stand. Your mind must be your pillar, even when your body shakes. What saves you today are the small, repeated choices. Every time you choose to stay calm, you step away from panic.

Today’s simplest technique is this: each time you hear bad news, place your hands on your heart, close your eyes, and say three times, “I am here. I am alive. I remain calm.” This sentence is your first mental shelter.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve lost or might lose. What matters is that you are still here. Still able to think, feel, choose. Even in pitch darkness, a small conscious decision lights a flame.

This moment is historic. For you, your country, our collective soul. But what makes it bearable is learning from it. From now, you can be someone who finds stillness in the storm. That choice is yours.

Today, the world stood still—but you are still in motion. Perhaps slow, perhaps wounded, but alive and growing. Let this day mark the start of something deeper—not just survival, but the birth of a wiser, calmer, rooted self.

Now, gently close your eyes. Place your hands on your heart. One deep inhale, one slow exhale. Say to yourself: “I am here. I am alive. I remain calm.”

Chapter Two: National Anxiety, Personal Pain

What trembles inside me when I hear the explosion in a video? Why do I want to hide, run away, pretend nothing is happening? This trembling doesn’t come from a personal memory. It comes from a collective terror that seeps into me like smoke.

We don’t tremble only at the sound of a bullet. We tremble with the memories of generations broken before us. The siren doesn’t just startle us—we are haunted by what our grandparents saw in war. This anxiety is not just about today. It is the ash of our history embedded in our souls.

What you’re feeling right now doesn’t belong to you alone. Your heart is not the only one racing. In many homes, voices have gone silent, eyes have frozen, and breaths are held. This means our collective psyche is wounded.

Our bodies respond to war, even if we’re behind a phone screen. Our heart rate increases, our breath shallows, and our hands go cold. The brain believes we’re in an actual warzone. For the brain, reality is what it believes—not only what it touches.

In these moments, the mind falls into traps that drown us if we don’t recognize them. One such trap is “catastrophizing”: the belief that the worst will happen right now. A thought that visits briefly but burns your soul if it lingers.

Another trap is “overgeneralization”: If one place is attacked, then I must be next. If there’s fire somewhere, it must mean everything will burn. A terrified mind can’t see borders—it sees only darkness.

A panicked mind acts like a broken mirror: nothing it reflects is true, only fractured and chaotic. This is where you must accept: your thoughts in this moment are not truth, but echoes of fear.

And this acceptance is the first step toward calm. Not resistance, not denial, not overanalysis. Simply accept that your body is on alert and you are a human who needs peace. This alone brings back your breath.

Fear is not the enemy. When you know it, you’ll see it’s come to protect you. But if you let it ride you like a wild horse, it will toss you off a cliff. You must take the reins.

To do this, you must draw a clear boundary between yourself and the collective psyche. Accept that others are scared—but you don’t need to carry their fear. Limit your exposure to media. Take three deep breaths before believing any news.

Now comes your personal moment: where in your body is the most tension? Forehead? Chest? Belly? Find that spot, place your hand on it, and say three times: “You are safe, even if the world is not.”

You are not responsible for calming the whole country—but you are responsible for your own heart. When you soften inside, that peace will ripple throughout your home. That is your share in saving the collective soul.

In sleepless nights, when you replay the bombs in your mind, remember these words: “I am not alone. This fear is not mine. I am passing through, not drowning.”

We can’t stop the missiles, but we can stop the thoughts that destroy us inside. This is the resistance we need—the kind that begins within.

You are part of a wounded history, but you must decide not to let the wound blind you. You can survive without adding new scars. That is emotional maturity.

To get through this anxiety, you don’t have to be a hero. You only need to care for yourself, count your breaths, and not let the mind become your master. The mind must remain servant to the heart.

If you can get through today, tomorrow will be easier. But for that, you must see this moment. Don’t run from fear. Face it, hold its hand, and say: “You are part of me, but I choose the path.”

Believe that there is only one real moment: now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Live this now. Breathe this now. And if your heart shakes, remember—millions of other hearts are trembling in sync with yours.

You can’t save your country’s pain today, but you can stay alive for the day when you can. That staying alive begins with the life inside your soul. And your soul is worth protecting.

Now, right now, take three deep breaths. Put your hand on your heart. Whisper gently: “I am here. I am still alive. And I can still choose peace inside, even if there is war outside.”

Chapter Three: Mental Fatigue in the Era of Endless News

Why am I so tired, even though I haven’t done anything? Why do I wake up feeling like I’ve been through an internal war? This exhaustion isn’t from the body. It comes from a soul quietly overwhelmed by countless invisible worries.

We live in the age of news, but our psyche is still made for stories. News never ends. But stories need conclusions to sustain us. And so, the human psyche crumbles in the face of never-ending events.

Every time you turn on your phone, the world screams: Watch this! Hear this! React! But your psyche isn’t designed for so many contacts. Like a phone with a thousand apps running, eventually, it crashes.

You’re not just a witness to events—you’ve become a participant against your will. With every post, every photo, every news update, your brain stores new stress, without asking your permission.

This exhaustion is also from too many choices. Our psyche breaks down under intense or forced choices. Each headline, each crisis, forces you into reaction. But no one taught us how to react without burning out.

In this chronic anxiety, your brain decides to stop reacting. That numbness you feel—it’s not depression. It’s your brain’s emergency shutdown system. It turns off emotions, just to survive.

When nothing surprises you, when you can’t cry anymore, when you no longer laugh—that’s when your psyche has entered “emergency silence.” Not from coldness, but from too much heat.

We don’t fear news itself—we fear the fact that the news never ends. Every day, we wait for something to be over—but nothing ends. This endlessness devours the soul quietly from within.

You have every right to be tired. Not because you’re weak—but because you’re human, with a limited brain, a sensitive heart, and a soul that’s reached its limit. Your fatigue is a normal reaction to an abnormal world.

No one is built for this much awareness. We’re not made to hold all the pain of the world. Even prophets didn’t carry the burden of all humanity at once. Neither should you.

To protect your psyche, you must choose what to see, what to ignore, and what not to respond to. This is not apathy, and it’s not selfish. It’s responsibility toward your mental survival.

From today, start a new habit: before opening social media, ask yourself, “Is my mind ready to face others’ pain?” If not, put it away. Not everyone is made to carry every sorrow.

Amid this storm of updates, also listen to your inner headline. What does your heart say? Does it want to take a walk? Have you missed the sound of birds? The outer world is loud, but your inner world is still waiting to be heard.

Peace is not a distant goal—it’s a moment inside you. Every time you disconnect from the flood and return to your solitude, you experience a moment of peace. Take those moments seriously.

To rebuild your psyche, you don’t need to change the world. Just create space so your soul can breathe. A few hours without news, a few moments without analysis, a few minutes just for you. These are miracles.

If you can’t save the whole day, save a few minutes. If you can’t save the world, touch your own soul gently. That too is a revolution.

You are not a newsfeed. You are a living being, with a pulse, with a heart, and a need for gentleness. What exhausts you most is the denial of your gentleness in the face of constant violence.

The world will always be wounded. But you can be a healer to your own wound—if you listen to yourself. Your inner voice—not the outer shouts. Your fatigue is your compass, not your enemy.

Now, right now, ask yourself: What do I not need to know today to survive? Which news is not worth burning my psyche for? Which reaction is not worth losing my smile?

Let your mind be your home—not a battlefield of the media. A home where a soft voice still says, “You can survive, even if you’ve fallen to your knees in exhaustion.”

Chapter Four: Four Breaths to Regain Control

When the sound of explosions arrives from afar, when sirens howl through the night, when news piles on with stories of chaos, your body no longer waits for logic. It just wants to survive. But how do you survive when you don’t even know where to run?

The moment fear begins, the brain commands: “Fight or flee.” But neither is possible. There’s no enemy in front of you, and no way to escape. You’re left with a trembling body, a frozen mind, and breath that refuses to rise.

Breath—our simplest possession—becomes the hardest thing to find in crisis. Fear steals it. Anxiety tightens the chest. It feels like you’re drowning in air.

This is exactly where something unexpected must happen: instead of running, return inward. Instead of shouting, stay silent. Instead of fleeing, do one thing: breathe. Not just any breath—but conscious, deliberate, deep breath.

Four breaths. Just four conscious breaths can shift your brain from “panic mode” to “commander mode.” This is no metaphor. This is your emergency protocol for mental control in real war.

Take the first breath for awareness. Ask yourself: Where am I? Not in the news, not in imagination, but right here. Feel your feet. Hear the ambient sounds. You are alive. You are still here.

Take the second breath for stability. Ground your body. If you’re standing, sit. If you’re sitting, lean back. Rest your hands on your thighs. Let your body sense that relative safety exists.

Take the third breath for inner strength. Remember that you are not alone. Millions of others are trembling at this very moment. But you, with each breath, are practicing to be your own commander.

Take the fourth breath for the future. Nothing is over yet. You still have power. Whatever it is, it’s still ongoing. This is not the end. It’s just a point in the story—not the whole of it.

Our bodies obey breath—not reason, not reminders—but inhale and exhale. When you shift your breath from anxiety to awareness, a miracle begins inside you: a return to self.

The technique I now give you is the simplest yet deepest tool you’ll have in the days of war. It’s called “Four-Step Breathing.” You can use it anywhere, even in a shelter or a dark alley.

Do it like this: inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, and rest for four. Repeat this cycle three times. That’s it. That’s all.

If you do this every time you hear a siren, you teach your brain: “I don’t have to die each time.” You give your psyche a choice. And that choice is the beginning of liberation.

You can’t control the missile. You can’t decide policy. But you can decide how to treat your own body. That’s no small power. That’s the beginning of mastery.

We think power comes from the outside. But the greatest command is mastery over self. And that mastery begins with the command of breath. Every breath is a summons back to your center.

The moment you breathe consciously, you declare: “I am still here. I can still choose. I still own myself, even if the world around me explodes.”

These breaths are the off-switch to your brain’s emergency alarm. When activated, the brain stops commanding the body to tremble. The heart slows. Hands sweat less. Your eyes see clearer.

Trust yourself. Every conscious breath you take is like rescuing the frightened child within. A child scared of noise—but now knows an adult is protecting them.

You are here. You are breathing. And you have decided to return from fear to calm. This is your beginning of heroism. Not with weapons, but with breath.

Now, right now, close your eyes and take one four-step breath. Let this moment be your turning point. Instead of escape, look within. Instead of screaming, breathe. Instead of death, choose presence.

Chapter Five: My Family in the Psychological Battlefield

When explosions echo from afar, when the news is filled with threats, and messages are dripping with fear, the first eyes turn to you. Your spouse, your child, your mother—even your neighbor—ask: “What should we do now?” And you don’t know either.

In this not-knowing, a task lands on your shoulders. Not a military or political duty, but a psychological one: you must become a pillar, without becoming a wall. You must be an anchor, even if fear shakes you inside.

In crisis, the minds of children and adults are not so different. Both seek someone calm, trustworthy, and honest. Someone who speaks reality but keeps hope alive.

You are that someone who must hold this balance. Don’t lie, but don’t shout the truth harshly either. Don’t run away, but don’t try to act like a hero. Be a human who understands fear and knows how to breathe through it.

When your child asks, “Are they going to kill us?” it’s not the time for automatic reactions. Pause, breathe, and say calmly and firmly, “We’re safe right now, and I’ll do all I can to keep it that way.”

No child needs to know how many rockets were fired or which base was hit. They need to know someone still has their back. Someone who remains grounded and present.

Your partner might go silent or speak in anger. Crises awaken old wounds. These silences and outbursts are not weaknesses, but unprocessed fears that are now erupting.

You must become a witness who sees without judging. Someone who speaks without commanding. In the heart of crisis, begin a conversation that peace never allowed to bloom.

Saying things like “Now’s not the time” or “You’re exaggerating” only builds distance. What’s needed now is listening. Listening without rushing to reply.

If your child asks hard questions, don’t panic. Say you don’t know. But stay with them. Say, “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but tonight we’re together.” These words are more healing than a thousand explanations.

In a crisis, your role isn’t to know everything, but to show that even in uncertainty, you can be kind, calm, and human. That alone soothes both children and adults.

Bodies in distress crave contact. A hug, a gentle touch, sitting together in silence—these heal more than logic ever could. Touch is the path back to the ground.

Your children might lash out, sulk, or cry for no reason. Don’t worry. These are signs of anxiety taking shape in bodies that can’t yet speak it. Children scream with their bodies when their words fall short.

Talk to your partner about sharing roles without turning it into a power struggle. This is a time for mutual support. Even if you’ve had conflicts, now is the time to say simply: “I’m with you.”

If you’re alone, with no family nearby, even in exile, you can still be a refuge to others. A short call, a kind message, even to virtual friends, can mean everything.

You now carry an important psychological role: transforming anxiety into meaning. You don’t just report events—you turn them into opportunities for connection, dialogue, and growth.

And if you feel you have nothing left to give, just breathe. Your presence alone, even in silence, is enough for someone who loves you. Sometimes, simply breathing together can be the most life-saving act.

Don’t fear the weight of this role. You’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re not supposed to save everyone. Just remain human. In this psychological battlefield, that is a true act of courage.

And now, right now, take the hand of someone in your family, even if you say nothing. That simple touch is the beginning of returning to life, to a hope that slowly but surely rises from the darkness.

Chapter Six: Silence, Observation, Decision

When the world outside is filled with loud noises—explosions, shouting, warnings—perhaps the only thing that can save you is silence. Not silence from fear, but silence from presence. A moment where you breathe, but don’t decide.

In crisis, the human mind craves urgency. We want to act, say something, save someone, or scream. But most of the time, these “immediate reactions” don’t help—they harm.

Like someone trapped in quicksand, struggling only pulls them deeper. In moments of crisis, the struggle to control often plunges us deeper into anxiety. What we need is a moment to pause.

Sit. Really sit. Not just with your legs, but with your mind and soul. Look around—not to analyze, just to see, hear, and feel. This moment of witnessing is the beginning of regaining your power.

In the first hours of a crisis, most people react instinctively: arguments, fleeing, crying, heavy silences, or sudden outbursts. But the one who just watches often survives best.

You don’t need to understand everything right now. You’re not here to rescue everyone. You’re here to stay, observe, and let the first storm pass. Big decisions are made in calm, not amidst chaos.

Effective silence is the ability to hear without judgment. To hear others’ fear without overreacting. To keep yourself grounded even when everyone else is screaming.

Sometimes the best response to crisis is just watching. Watch your body: Is it trembling? Is your heart racing? Is your mouth dry? Just notice, without judgment. This observation itself is healing.

Many people argue during crises, for no apparent reason. They don’t know their minds are seeking outlets. When tears don’t come, conflict takes their place. When screaming isn’t possible, aggression replaces it.

If someone in your home or around you is angry for no reason, instead of pushing back, ask: “Would you like some tea?” That simple question can prevent hours of conflict. That’s active silence.

Some people go quiet, not from calm, but from shock. They are frozen. Instead of asking, “Why aren’t you talking?” just sit beside them. Your silent presence may help more than words ever could.

In silence, ask yourself: “Does this moment need action, or just observation?” Most times, the answer is just to observe. Just to be. Just to breathe and listen.

Watching the news too much is not observation—it’s drowning. Let yourself view a few minutes, then return inward. Your mind needs quiet gaps to avoid burning out.

When others want you to decide, and you’re not ready, say: “I need time to think.” That’s not weakness—it’s strength. Those who decide in silence are commanders.

In every home on the first day of war, there’s a need for someone who just sees and listens. Not analyzes, judges, or warns. Just watches, softly, with awareness. This gaze plants seeds for wise choices.

Effective silence is like fire under ashes. Calm, but alive. When needed, it gives warmth, guidance, even light. But to remain useful, that fire must not blaze too soon.

These days, the greatest gift you can offer yourself and others is silence. Silence born from awareness, not fear. Silence that’s ready to see, not run from reality.

Now, right now, sit in silence for just a few minutes. Even if the outside is loud. Listen—to sounds, to your breath, to your heartbeat. In this very moment, you are alive. That aliveness is the beginning.

Chapter Seven: Survival Routine on Day One of War

The first day of war is unlike any other. Hours pass slowly, sounds feel strange, and your body moves like a muted robot. Nothing feels normal—not even the air you breathe. Yet, this day is the most critical one for survival.

The human brain in initial shock is focused on survival, not logic. You can’t make long-term decisions because your mind is stuck on questions like “Where is safe?” or “What should I do right now?” So instead of thinking ahead, just get through today.

Your first task is to create a “psychological schedule” for just this one day. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Just today. A small chart in your mind or on paper telling you what to do each hour.

Start by waking up and drinking a glass of warm water, even if you have no appetite. Water helps bring the body out of freeze mode. Then take three deep breaths. It’s like starting an engine on a snowy day.

Next step: eat something. Not to feel full, but to stay alive. A piece of bread, a bit of cheese, a few dates. In crisis, your brain needs glucose, and skipping meals can push you to the edge of breakdown.

Set specific times for checking the news. For example, only three times a day, each time for ten minutes. Spend the rest of your time calming your body and mind. You don’t need to relive the pain repeatedly—just gather essential facts.

In between, make time to stretch or lie down. Fear tightens the body. If you don’t release that tension, not only your mind but your body will begin to ache.

Talk to your family—not about dangers, but about how to spend the day. Say things like, “It’s tea time now,” or “At 3 we’ll take a short break.” These simple routines restore a sense of control.

If you’re alone, call someone—even briefly. Hearing another human voice can be more healing than medicine. Just say, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” That sentence is magic.

Write a few lines, not a story—just a mental release. Write: “How do I feel right now? What is my body saying? Where in my body is the fear?” These small sentences ease pressure.

Work with your body—not against it. If your body is shaking, let it shake. If you need to cry, don’t resist. These are natural responses to threat, not signs of weakness.

If you have a space for prayer or meditation, use it, even for a few minutes. Not for answers, but for connection. To feel that you’re not alone, even if everything around you feels destroyed.

Calm, wordless music can bring your body back to balance—nature sounds or soft traditional instruments. Something that invites breathing, not adrenaline.

In the evening, take a short walk—even indoors, down a hallway. Walking helps unlock the brain and reminds it: “We’re still part of life’s flow.”

Sleep may not come easily, but it’s essential. Don’t expect it to be smooth. Dim the lights, turn off background noise, and focus on your breath. This calming is the first step to rest.

If you wake up afraid, tell yourself: “This is just my body sensing threat.” Then drink some water and return to breathing. Sleep is still possible after fear—if you stay in your body.

Give children a routine too. A simple game, drawing, or building something with scraps. Children love repetition, and structure soothes them. You are building a psychological shield for your family.

Be gentle with yourself. Don’t say, “I must be strong.” Just say, “I will get through today.” This phrase is simple—but it saves. You don’t have to be a hero, just stay alive.

The first day is a day of passage, not understanding. You may not yet grasp what’s happening or what will come. But the fact that you’re still reading this means you are alive. That is victory.

At the end of the night, write or say one sentence to yourself: “I made it through today.” Repeat it in the silence of your soul. This means you planted a seed of peace—even in the soil of war.

Chapter Eight: When You Don’t Know Whether to Flee or Stay

One of the most painful moments in a crisis is when you don’t know what the right choice is. Should you run? Stay? Wait? Move? This uncertainty is like a wounded animal caught in a wildfire. Your heart says go, but your body is frozen. Logic collapses.

In emergencies, the human brain gets stuck between two instincts: “fight” or “flight.” But sometimes you can’t fight, and you can’t flee. That’s when you enter the third state: freeze. And freeze is the most paralyzing of all.

Many people—especially in war or unrest—experience this frozen confusion. You not only don’t know what to do, but you start doubting yourself. This doubt runs deeper than fear. It feels like you’ve lost trust in yourself.

The first step is to accept this reality. Saying “I don’t know” isn’t weakness—it’s honesty. You are standing in fog. And in fog, it’s normal not to see the path.

Second step: limit your options. The brain panics when there are too many choices. So write down just two or three real ones. For example: “Stay,” “Go to my sister’s house,” “Call someone I trust.”

Tell yourself that any decision made from a calm heart is better than one made in panic. Even if it’s the wrong one, at least you moved from choice, not fear.

If you feel like fleeing but can’t, do something that mimics escape for your body. Walk, jog, move. Signal to your brain that motion is happening. Even 20 minutes of pacing indoors can break the freeze.

If you decide to stay, make that “staying” active, not passive. Know why you’re staying. Write: “I’m staying because…” If it’s for family, or to protect someone, say it out loud.

Consult someone you trust. Not to get their advice, but to hear your own voice. Often the answer emerges just from speaking it aloud.

The crisis brain becomes cluttered. You must clear mental space. Even turning off your phone for a few hours can restore clarity. The mind thinks better in silence.

Writing pros and cons for each option—yes, the old-fashioned method—still works. Not to erase the cons, but to ask: Can I live with the consequences?

Guilt is one of the biggest traps in decision-making. If you flee, you feel like you’ve abandoned others. If you stay, you feel you’ve risked too much. But the truth is: every decision comes at a cost. You must choose which cost you’re willing to carry.

The most important thing is to have a temporary decision. Say, “I’ll stay until tomorrow night, then reassess.” Temporary choices reduce psychological pressure. No decision is forever—not even the big ones.

If you choose to flee, sit for five minutes before moving. Just breathe. This prepares your body. Running in calm is much safer than fleeing in panic.

If you choose to stay, ask: “What daily survival tasks must I do?” This brings you from worrying about a vague future to focusing on a tangible present. Survival happens in the now—not in imagination.

In any case, remember: you are worth protecting. You are human—not a decision-making machine. Your emotions are valid. A choice made in fear often leads back to regret.

Sometimes, the best action is inaction. Just hold on one more day. Sometimes, time brings clarity. Endurance is an act of courage. Surviving one more day is a silent triumph.

In the end, know this: you have the right to be confused. The right to fear, and the right not to. What matters is honesty with yourself. Be neither hero nor victim—just a human, searching for survival in the fire.

And if, after all this, you still don’t know what to do—know this: as long as you are breathing, you can still choose. You can still find a way. It is not too late.

Chapter Nine: When the News Kills Your Hope

In today’s world, news doesn’t just report reality—it creates it. Every time you check your phone, you’re assaulted by words of death, collapse, injustice, and devastation. You’re no longer just a listener—you’ve become part of the trauma.

You live in a room whose walls are made of disaster. Each sentence you hear lays another brick of fear and sorrow on your chest. Eventually, you can no longer tell what’s real and what’s exaggerated. You only feel pain, with no clear source.

When the news kills your hope, you lose the ability to imagine a future or bear your past. You stand in the middle of a swamp. You can’t move forward or go back. You just sink silently.

The biggest trap of the news is how it turns you into a mere spectator. It tells you the world is burning, but offers no way to help. You’re left alone with guilt, helplessness, and futility.

To survive in this news-drenched world, first limit your intake. You have the right to choose what enters your mind and heart. Even an hour of intentional silence can soothe your wounded mind.

Second, restore balance. If you see a bitter headline, seek out something healing afterward. A poem, a song. Your soul needs balance—not drowning.

Third, act. Instead of just sitting and absorbing the world’s pain, take a small step. If you can’t save the world, maybe you can ease your neighbor’s burden. Action is the antidote to helplessness.

Fourth, remember your humanity. You’re not just an information consumer. You have a heart, a soul, and a right to mental well-being. Even if you have to mute some voices, that doesn’t make you cruel—it makes you a caretaker.

Fifth, redefine what it means to be “informed.” Awareness doesn’t mean drowning in every horrible detail. It’s enough to know what’s happening—without losing yourself in every gruesome image.

News that enters unfiltered becomes like nails driven into your psyche. So after hearing something, pause and ask: Can I respond to this? Is this useful for me?

If the answer is “no,” let it go. That’s not apathy—it’s psychological protection. A world that keeps you in constant alarm is a world that numbs you. And numbness is the real danger of modern life.

Sometimes, you need to turn away from the news and look at your own life. Your mother still makes tea. Your child still smiles. The sun still rises. Life, with all its simplicity, continues.

You have the right to hope. Even if the world is burning, you can light a candle in the fire. Hope is a choice, not a reflex. And it’s a choice you must make daily.

If you feel your hope has died, return to the smallest things. Breathing. Warm hands. The smell of bread. A bird in flight. Life reveals itself in small things, not in bold headlines.

News makes you global, but your body lives locally. You must balance being globally aware with locally grounded. You can’t carry all the world’s pain—but you can start kindness in your own room.

Lastly, practice returning to silence. Shut off the noise. Close the screens. Sit in stillness. In that silence, hope quietly returns. Hope is born of silence—not of shouting.

You are still alive. You still have choice. You can still laugh, even in the dark. Laugh, because that laughter is resistance. Because no headline can silence your smile.

Chapter Ten: Hope; Neither Fantasy Nor Lie

Hope is a word that these days is spoken over and over, yet many of us ask ourselves in our hearts: Is real hope even possible? Or is it merely a fantasy we create to calm ourselves? The truth is, hope is neither a simple feeling nor an empty slogan. It is a conscious decision that takes root in the midst of darkness and destruction.

When everything seems shattered, the stars of our soul’s sky—Saturn and Pluto—send us a message that rebuilding is possible. Saturn symbolizes patience, structure, and endurance, while Pluto carries the message of rebirth from the heart of devastation. These cosmic forces remind us that every end is a new beginning.

Real hope does not mean looking to the future in a romantic or unrealistic way. It means accepting all that is, without denial or self-deception. Hope means standing firm in the face of harsh realities, while keeping a flame of light burning inside.

Trying to maintain hope is like holding a candle in a storm. You know the wind may blow out that flame, but as long as your hand holds it, the light remains. That light is the force that helps you find your way in the darkness.

Hope means trusting that after every dark night, a morning will come. But this trust does not stem from wishful thinking or blind optimism. It comes from deep awareness and experience that hardships are temporary and life goes on.

You are not alone on this path. Millions have faced fears and failures like you and have risen again. This collective power is a vast energy that can build a better future.

Creating hope requires self-care. When your body and mind are exhausted, you cannot keep hope alive. So you must value sleep, nutrition, and rest to have the strength to rebuild.

Hope means forgiving yourself for mistakes and weaknesses. It means knowing you are human and on a path of learning and growth. No one is perfect, and no path is smooth.

In the heart of this great nightmare, you can build a bridge. A bridge from today to tomorrow, from darkness to light. This bridge is made by your small steps, each taken with faith and awareness.

When you keep hope alive inside, you realize that life is beyond crises and pain. Life is a continuous flow where beauty blooms from hardship.

You can choose how your story continues. You can let fear and despair knock you down, or you can rise and fight for life with all your being.

This book ends only with this message: everything will be clear in the end. The road is winding and difficult, but patience is the final key. Patience means trusting the flow of life, even when you do not know the outcome.

Hope is the light that shows you the way in the darkest moments. It is a light no storm can extinguish. You carry that light within, and now it is time to ignite it.