There is a moment in the day that belongs neither to daylight nor to night. The sun has already slipped behind the mountains, the sky glows first orange, then crimson, and finally deep blue, while the stars are still reluctant to appear. It is a suspended moment - delicate, elusive, impossible to grasp. The Sages call it ben hashemashot, literally "between the suns": the interval stretching from sunset, shkiyah, until the appearance of the stars, tzeit hakochavim.

When the war broke out over Shabbat, I wasn’t sure how we would even be able to open the mikvaot. Although it wasn’t technically my problem to solve, it weighed heavily on my mind. Somehow, I knew we would find a way. It just meant opening during our shifts and working around the sirens ensuring each mikvah had a safe room.

The quiet strength of the mitzvot moves through time without noise. It does not seek approval and does not look for attention. Yet it continues. The recent discovery of a mikveh beneath the Kotel plaza belongs to this same strength.

As a Mikvah attendant, I have witnessed many moments of deep emotion and transformation. But one evening stands out with particular tenderness — when I had the honor of guiding a woman, a friend, through her Mikvah immersion following a hysterectomy due to breast cancer.

What a blessed, joyous first experience for my daughter, embracing her into the mitzvah of mikveh immersion in a manner that will hopefully connect her to Hashem - and her beloved – with warm, wonderous ties of happiness and holiness, for blessed decades of fertility to come. It was this very positive experience of hers – and of mine alongside her – that struck me painfully as so very much in contrast to my own tevilla experiences.

But as the time drew near, I pushed these fair arguments out of my head and just took it one step at a time. I cleaned myself in a halachic permitting manner, checked myself, walked out of the house (I left my children with my guests) and trekked to the Mikvah...