There was a time in my life when I became incredibly good at carrying everything on my own. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Divorce. Years of single motherhood. Building a community. Running an organization. Making endless decisions. Holding everyone else together while quietly carrying my own burdens. Somewhere along the way, I came to believe this was simply what strength looked like.
Every year, the Three Weeks arrive. We remember the tragedies of our past, observe the customs of mourning, and remind ourselves that our Sages teach the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash was rooted in baseless hatred. But this year, I found myself asking a different question.
As we approach Tisha B’Av, we spend time mourning the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. We reflect on what was lost, the pain of exile, and the longing for redemption. But tucked inside this painful chapter is a lesson that has profoundly changed the way I experience hardship.
For many years, my nervous system had one job: survive. Not survive in the dramatic sense. I wasn’t running from danger every day. But I was the pillar. The decision maker. The one carrying five children, a nonprofit, a home, and all the unseen weight that life quietly places on your shoulders. When you’re the only one holding everything together, something remarkable happens. You become incredibly capable. You also become armored.
There is a certain safety that comes after heartbreak. A rhythm forms. Life settles. You learn how to carry yourself through the world without needing too much from anyone. Your days become manageable, predictable, peaceful enough. And after enough disappointment, enough shattered expectations, enough rebuilding, there’s a quiet voice that begins to whisper:
There is something instinctively heartbreaking about something that breaks. A dish shatters. A relationship cracks. A plan falls apart. Our first reaction is almost automatic: It’s over. It’s ruined. It can’t be what it once was. And with that comes a wave of emotion, disappointment, grief, sometimes even shame. We mourn not just what was lost, but what we believed it was supposed to be. But what if breaking is not the end of the story?
For many years of my life, probably from my early teens until my late thirties, my emotional world often felt like a roller coaster. My inner state depended almost entirely on what was happening around me. A phone call could lift me up or send me crashing down. An interaction with someone, a financial situation, a conversation with my spouse, an unexpected challenge, all of these external events determined how I felt that day.
When I look at the world today, I see so many women carrying so much. We juggle family, work, relationships, and the endless demands of life. We face challenges both personal and communal, and often the weight feels heavy. And yet, when I look at women through the lens of faith, I see incredible strength. I see women who not only survive challenges but rise through them with courage and grace.
When most people think about faith, they picture the big moments — the crisis that brings us to our knees, the prayer whispered in desperation, the miracle that strengthens our belief. And while those moments are real and powerful, I’ve discovered that faith is not meant to be reserved only for the extraordinary.
We all love a plan. We map out our days, our years, even our lives with a sense of direction and purpose. And yet, so often, life takes us on a detour. Sometimes it’s small and inconvenient — a delay, a change of schedule, a closed door. Other times, it’s life-altering: a challenge we never asked for, a loss we never imagined, a path we never thought we’d walk.
