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.

What happens when mikveh night collides with drinking, seuda, and Purim revelry? Can you go to the mikveh after drinking? What if one spouse is intoxicated and not aware of boundaries when in niddah?

When I was learning to become a balanit , one of the main messages that was woven through each session is that the women who come to the mikvah are people, each with their own story. As balaniot we rarely are privy to those stories: struggle with niddah/mikvah, a fight with her husband, a sick parent, infertility, stress at work—or anything else we carry with us throughout our day.

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.

For many years, one of my most personal companions was the mikvah. It arrived in my life when I was young and newly married — a little nervous, a little unsure, clutching a towel and a sense that I was stepping into something ancient and intimate.