This is for the married people to hear, she writes. Your partner's moving on. There was no mention or preparation for the betrayal that followed. You found your guy, but with him lost your common sense. I gave you time, understanding it was rough at the beginning. I wanted to give you space. I sent breakfast to show I cared. But as the weeks passed, my calls went unanswered, my overtures were brushed away, and when we finally spoke, your voice was distant, impatient, uninterested. It was all about you. You never asked about my life. I'm going to try to share. You whispered to your husband, repeating my words, leaving me exposed and disregarded. I tried, I really did. Everyone said, “Communicate,” so I did. I called, spoke gently, used I-statements, sharing my pain. But you didn't care. You called me sensitive, blamed my timing. Once again, it was up to me to adjust, to fit around your schedule, your husband's routine. It was always about the marrieds and their needs.
Still, I tried with tender hope that maybe somehow our friendship would return to what it once was. But it wasn't just you. With every engagement, every chuppah, every shattering of glass, my heart broke again, silently saying goodbye to yet another friend. You're all moving on: one baby, then two, growing families, joyful homes. I'm happy for you, truly I am. I wish you'd never have to know the loneliness I face every day. The pain is so heavy, I'm drowning. I feel forgotten, forgotten by the world that moves too fast, forgotten by Hashem, excluded and mocked, left in the cold, as everyone else is welcomed in, loved and warm, while I'm left outside to brave the chill alone.
My friends, how could you forget? I wonder at your careless words, your lack of empathy. Where are you? Your carefree oblivion kills me each time again. I'm supportive, I'm fine, I'm the punchline that keeps on smiling. When you gather the marrieds, the mothers, the ones who made it, you'll speak in soft tones about those still waiting. You'll say she's so strong, you'll say she's so amazing. And I'll nod from afar, because that's my role: the strong one, the amazing one, the one who never breaks. But between us, I broke a long time ago. You just weren't looking. So laugh, my friends, toast your blessings, dance under your chandeliers. I'll be here in the shadows, clapping politely, smiling wide, as the joke lands, and once again, it's on me.
Let's be clear: every girl has a different way that they take the situation they're in. Some are in a lot of pain, some are in less so. Each one is dealing with their own challenges, just like everyone deals with their financial challenges or their children's challenges differently. But this week is Shabbat Shira. It's Shabbat Shira because there's a special segula (spiritual remedy) for zivugim (marital matches) to happen. Shabbat Shira is because it's a Shabbat on which we hope we will all collectively sing. But the only way we can collectively, as a nation, sing Az Yashir (Then he sang)—the only way we as a nation can sing together as one—is if we realize we are all together as one.
There's no difference between you and me: you with money, me without. There's no difference between you and me: me with kids, you without. There's no difference between you and me: me with fame, you without; you with fame, me without. There's no difference between you and me: you're married, I'm not; I'm married, you're not. The whole thing with one Jewish nation going through one journey, struggling through life together, praying together, growing together, and being strengthened and strong as we can be, as we can be going through each challenge on our own, together.
So you want to know when a nation sings? A nation sings when we realize every situation that we're put in is exactly the same. Because every single situation that we're put in is a miracle.