The Myth of Having It All: Torah, Therapy, and the Truth About Modern Womanhood

Ariel Goldstein, LSW

Women in 2025 are told they can have dual roles in society—both as professionals and as mothers. But as someone expecting her first child at forty, I’ve learned that this message is more myth than reality.

Growing up, my mother worked, though not in a high-powered field or one that offered long-term stability. Her priority was trying to be a present, available mother. I had friends whose mothers were doctors or other professionals, but who often felt emotionally abandoned. I also knew girls whose stay-at-home mothers urged them to become financially independent so they wouldn’t have to rely on a husband. Since the women’s liberation movement, society has promised that women can “have it all”—career, marriage, motherhood, financial security, personal fulfillment—but what it fails to mention is that something always has to give. And when that “something” is the emotional well-being of a child or the health of the mother, the cost is too high.

From the perspective of Torah, I was taught that a husband has a halakhic obligation to support his wife emotionally and financially, as promised in the ketubah.^[1] And yet, in some religious communities, girls are socialized to become sole breadwinners while their husbands learn full-time, often in financially unsustainable circumstances. My grandfather, a full-time worker and part-time learner, would often quote Pirkei Avot: “Im ein kemah, ein Torah”—“If there is no flour, there is no Torah.”^[2] In other words, Torah learning is sacred, but a home cannot function without basic financial stability. I was raised with the value of being an ezer ke-negdo—a helpmate, not a substitute provider.

I come from poverty. Housing insecurity and instability defined my early life. I put myself through college over seven years using FAFSA, scholarships, and loans. My grandmothers encouraged me to become a teacher for the UFT pension and job stability, even though my passion lay in neuropsychology and, eventually, clinical social work.

After earning my B.A. in history, I began working as an associate Judaic studies teacher for fourth-grade girls. Though meaningful in some ways, the low pay, emotional burden, and mismatch between my strengths and the age group led me to reconsider. I pursued my M.S.W. at Fordham while dealing with chronic illness, emergency room visits, and multiple hospitalizations. I was diagnosed with idiopathic gastroparesis, a painful digestive disorder. I applied for disability but was denied multiple times. Just to survive and stay in school, I took out loans I’ll never be able to repay.

After graduating, I found myself in a bind. The well-paying roles were grueling and impossible to sustain with my medical needs. The sustainable ones didn’t pay enough to survive. Eventually, I found a role with a nonprofit in Brooklyn working with the homeless in shelters, hospitals, and subways. The pay and schedule met my needs, but the risks were high. I witnessed firsthand the cruel trap of single mothers who earned “too much” to qualify for benefits but not enough to feed their children. One colleague worked four jobs just to survive, then left due to burnout. Another moved in with relatives despite having a full-time job and a degree. These women—like me—were like Rosie the Riveter, but they had no village to catch them when they fell.

Since moving to New Jersey and becoming a licensed clinician, I’ve encountered new challenges: antisemitism in the workplace, professional colleagues dismissing my values, and the unrealistic expectations placed on women in this field. At two jobs, I heard antisemitic tropes from coworkers—about Jews controlling the world, about frum life being backward—all under the guise of “social justice.” My Orthodox values, modest dress, and religious observance were seen as obstacles, not strengths.

As a woman and a clinician, I was expected to be endlessly available, emotionally selfless, and unflappable in the face of personal hardship. After experiencing an ectopic pregnancy, I received performative sympathy from colleagues while simultaneously being judged for setting boundaries around my physical and mental health. When I asked for a work-life balance that honored both my healing process and religious observance, I was labeled “not a good fit,” despite positive feedback from supervisors and clients who expressed sadness and self-blame over my departure. When I requested a reason for my termination to better grow as a clinician, I was told the agency was “not legally allowed to disclose” why I was being let go, leaving me to piece together what was truly behind it.

These experiences reflect a broader issue: women in helping professions are expected to give endlessly while quietly enduring bias, burnout, and systemic inequity.

As a society, we often tell women they can “do it all,” but we fail to provide the infrastructure—financially, emotionally, or communally—to make that possible. We push them to earn, nurture, care, cook, plan, lead, and still appear composed and cheerful. It’s an unsustainable ideal. Torah doesn’t demand perfection from women; it values partnership, faith, and avodah she-balev—service of the heart. In particular, Orthodox Jewish communities must do more to create systems and spaces that allow women to be true partners to their spouses and well-rounded daughters, mothers, professionals, and friends. Whether a woman’s work takes place inside or outside the home, she should be able to care for herself—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—and continue to grow in ways that enrich her life, her family’s, and her community’s. Only then can we begin to repair the world and fulfill the unique tafkid each of us was sent here to accomplish.

We must do better. For our daughters, for our clients, for ourselves. It’s not about telling women not to work—it’s about finally being honest: doing everything alone is not a badge of honor. It’s a sign of a society that has lost its way.

Let us be neshei hayil, yes—but let us also be human.

^[1] See Ketubot 47b for discussion of a husband’s obligations as listed in the ketubah.

^[2] Pirkei Avot 3:17.