How many times do we as women push ourselves to go to sleep “just an hour later”, skip that meal, run out to do a chore that “can’t wait until tomorrow” because we hear our families singing Eishet Chayil in our heads and wish we felt like we deserved it?
I was walking when I saw them. A group of teenagers, seventeen or eighteen, clad in black hats and white shirts, untucked after hours of Friday drinking.
What, if anything, would I march for?
