It's been a year since we've been trapped in this nightmare. Actually, it's been more than a year if we count the days precisely: 368 days where shock, worry, sadness and frustration have taken over our lives. A year without routine, without rest, without respite. A year that's been both overwhelming and convoluted, where we've gone to extraordinary lengths, doing everything in our power while simultaneously yearning for quiet, peace, and normalcy.

I am Nirit Lavie Alon and for a year I've been waiting for Inbar Heiman, the young, beautiful, talented artist, the kind soul, my son Noam's partner.

Inbar attended the Nova festival in Re'im as a "helper," a volunteer on the support team for party-goers who feel unwell and need assistance. That's who she was: caring, concerned and kind. A person who loved to help, be with others and nurture those around her. Wherever she went, she always put others' needs before her own. She was a gifted and creative artist, full of joy for life. Known as "Pink" or "The Pink Raven," she was a graffiti artist celebrated in both the Israeli and international street art communities.

She met my son, Noam Alon, while studying visual communication almost three years ago. By now, Inbar and Noam should have finished their studies at art college and begun a new chapter in their life together, a chapter of building a home and family in Israel. This would have been happening now if she hadn't been kidnapped from the Nova music festival and brutally murdered by vile killers, exactly one year ago.

We pieced together what happened to Inbar until her abduction through testimonies, photos and videos from Nova survivors that reached us in the first days after the disaster. We know that when the rockets started, the party was stopped. Many tried to get into their cars and drive away but Inbar and her friends couldn't leave because of the massive traffic jams. As the shooting intensified, they ran back to the festival grounds and hid under the stage for several hours. During the attack, they ran to the fields with the terrorists in pursuit and split up. Inbar, running alongside two young men, was caught by terrorists who put her on a motorcycle and kidnapped her to Gaza. That same Saturday, a video of her being taken to Gaza while unconscious was circulated. Inbar was murdered and taken to Gaza, where she remains along with 100 other hostages.

She left behind two parents and a brother, along with Noam and all of us who loved her.

Some of the hostages are using their last ounces of strength to survive the hell, the torture, the hunger, the harsh conditions, the despair, the insult of thinking they've been forgotten, abandoned for who knows how many times. Others may have their bodies lying discarded under rubble, in forgotten tunnels, crushed under tank treads, decomposing and lost forever. For both groups, time is running out.

And we, the families, are also running out of time. We keep waiting. Waiting for negotiations to resume, waiting for a deal to be signed, waiting for the war to end, and now waiting for the northern campaign to conclude so that attention can return to the hostages. We wait, hoping that for a moment they won't be forgotten, that for a moment the government and its leader won't stop doing everything possible to bring them back.

This is undoubtedly the hardest year of my life. I've broken down countless times and I still consider myself a strong person. The pressure in October during the first days of the war to understand what happened to Inbar, the frantic efforts to save her when we still thought she was alive, the tense daily wait during the hostage releases in November, thinking she might be on the list coming out the next day, the sense of missed opportunity when this pulse stopped and she didn't return. The great breakdown in December when we learned she wasn't alive and had been murdered on October 7, the pain of sitting shiva without a funeral or grave, the effort to support and contain my son Noam so he wouldn't fall apart from pain and longing, helping him return to functioning and being. The struggle to keep my family functioning, to maintain my own health. The persistent fight to bring back all the hostages and support their families who have become my extended family at every rally, meeting, march, or funeral.

There are moments of uplift, moments that strengthen the fading spirit, when for instance hundreds of thousands take to the streets with us, shouting "You are not alone," when a neighbour brings food or medicine, when a friend knows I'm no longer myself and forgives me for everything, when volunteers and activists do more for us than seems possible, when a warm embrace envelops me even from a stranger.

But most of the time, everything is emotionally charged, confusing and frustrating. The mood changes from day to day. The pain is sharp but dulls as days pass. The anger that drove me has long since turned to frustration and despair with the situation, with the helplessness, with the failure of this government that doesn't do enough, that only causes harm to the people and society in Israel. The fear of routine – on one hand, I'm so thirsty for normality, but will it be like this forever? Until when? Until we accept the situation and give up? Will we learn to live without them?

Only the sadness remains constant. It lingers like a cloud covering the sky, overshadowing life. I've learned to give up on the joy of living; I've already got used to it. I'm willing to give it up forever for all the hostages to return, some for rehabilitation and some for burial. I'm willing to give it up so that the families and this nation can start a new year with a sigh of relief, with gratitude, with renewed trust between the people and the state, with the belief that everything is possible, that there is hope.

Nirit Lavie Alon is the mother of Noam, Inbar Hayman’s partner