That old ache is back. It asks, am I doing enough?

Entering the second week of Operation Rising Lion, Israel’s war with Iran, the words that capture the mood here and across the free world feel stark: Historic. Unprecedented. Terrifying.

Missiles rain down across the country. Cities are locked down. Kids stay home. Roads are empty. The overload of social media hasbara influencers floods every ballistic missile site, while a handful of Knesset members visit various sites and make sure to be filmed for the news and cameras. Meanwhile, the Home Front Command (Pikud HaOref) sends alerts that read like instructions from a dystopian novel: Don’t leave your home. Don’t gather. Don’t be seen.

The fear isn’t just in the sky, it’s inside us, lodged in our thoughts, our decisions, our sense of safety. For some, maybe it’s exaggerated by media or security protocols; for others, it’s a daily, visceral reality. Both feelings are real and valid.

This new war within a war has resurfaced an old, quiet ache for me: the crushing self-doubt I’ve carried since October 7th.

I’m a religious woman. I didn’t serve in the IDF. I chose the path many girls from my world do, sherut leumi, higher education, a career, community service. I truly believed I was contributing meaningfully. But these past months, and especially this past week, have shaken that belief.

Each time I watch friends and neighbors pull on uniforms for miluim, pack bags, and head to bases, while I work from home, order takeout, and try to stay calm in sealed rooms, I feel it: that ache, that question whispering: Am I doing enough?

Even now, I work in service of the public, indirectly supporting the war effort. I’m an advisor to a minister in the Knesset, my days filled with writing content, bridging the gap between Israelis and Anglo Jews abroad, helping people understand and connect. It’s what I’ve always loved and been good at. But in moments like this, it feels so small compared to holding a rifle, driving a tank, saving hostages, running into fire.

And it’s not just the deeds, it’s what the uniform symbolizes in Israeli society. Here, army service isn’t just a duty; it often defines your social status, a badge of bravery and belonging. In war, that feeling intensifies. Soldiers are revered, deservedly so. And those of us who didn’t serve, especially a vast majority of religious women who didn’t because of societal and hashkafic norms, can feel like outsiders to something sacred, something that defines what it means to stand up for your people.

Lately, I keep seeing friends in uniform, some even young mothers who chose to serve despite communal expectations, and I ask myself: Why didn’t I? Did I make the wrong choice? Would I choose differently now?

I don’t regret my life choices. But I do wish the space back then had been wider, kinder. That serving wouldn’t have felt like a threat to my values or my frumkeit. Because this war has made one thing brutally clear: Am Yisrael needs every single one of us. And our community is slowly beginning to see that tzniut isn’t about staying hidden at home, it’s about dignity, bravery, and showing up when it matters most.

Operation Rising Lion will be remembered in headlines as a geopolitical turning point. But for me, and for many women like me, it will also be remembered as an emotional reckoning, a moment when the gap between the front line and the home front felt more than just geographic.

Maybe, just maybe, this war can help heal that gap too, with honesty, with empathy, and with the courage to embrace every form of strength.

And I hope I merit to show my daughter that she, too, can stand tall, serve bravely, and never doubt that her place in this story is hers to choose,  in uniform or out of it.

I know this isn’t about me, the war with Iran is for the free world. But when you’re still searching for your purpose in life while facing life-threatening reality, you can’t help but long for that moment of clarity to strike you down (pun intended) and hand you your raison d’être-your reason to exist.