What It Means to Be a Modern Rebbetzin
The word Rebbetzin traditionally refers to the wife of a rabbi. And in many communities — especially progressive ones — the role has largely faded. Today, many rabbis are women themselves, and their partners often have entirely separate careers. The idea of a Rebbetzin as a community presence, teacher, or spiritual guide has, in many spaces, quietly disappeared.
Still, I believe the role of Rebbetzin is an important one: it is distinct from what a Rabbi does, deeply necessary, and — I believe — worth reclaiming.
For me, being a modern Rebbetzin is not about status or titles — it’s about acknowledging the reality of what it means to intentionally build one’s life as the partner of a pulpit Rabbi, and willingly accepting the responsibility of spiritual leadership rooted in relationships that can come with that role.
To me, at least, being a modern Rebbetzin is about engaging fully with my partner in our shared mission of building a Jewish home, and allowing that shared commitment to tradition to seep into every aspect of our lives. This is why the Torah is often compared to water — because of how she seeps into everything, and also has the power to renew.
Even before I met my husband, my friends at shul used to jokingly call me “the Rebbetzin.” I think this might have been because of my habit of passing out the grape juice for kiddush, or because of how I would gather women in my apartment to celebrate Rosh Chodesh, the New Moon each month, or because I wanted to talk constantly about the Torah and regularly guided rituals at the mikveh.
The reality is that, even before marriage was part of my life, wrestling with gender in Judaism was part of my journey. I had grown up loosely affiliated with a Reform synagogue, where the Rabbi was a woman, and had begun my career firmly believing gender was irrelevant. In my late twenties, however, my lived experience was beginning to change that perspective: I started to feel myself not just as a genderless person, but as a woman. I then stumbled upon the book, Chana’s Voice: A Rabbi Wrestles with Gender, Commandment, and the Women's Rituals of Baking, Bathing, and Brightening, by Rabbi Havivah Ner-David, and that book influenced me deeply. Like many women raised in egalitarian Jewish spaces, I had been taught to access Judaism through the traditionally male-coded mitzvot — reading Torah, wearing tallitot, wrapping tefillin. These were held up as the most important markers of Jewish ritual engagement, and I didn’t know that our tradition included anything else.
In the introduction of her book, Rabbi Havivah Ner-David reflects that, like many other Jewish feminists of her time (she was the first woman to receive Orthodox ordination in the 1970s), she had spent so much time practicing the men’s mitzvot, that she had come to regard the women’s mitzvot as less important. This, she reflected, changed as her Judaism matured. It is a little misogynistic, after all, to only care about practicing the men’s mitzvot because it elevates the masculine while diminishing the value of the feminine. True equality, she suggests, might look more like reclaiming these traditional feminine modes of ritual expression, and folding them back into Jewish society in general, to make them available to men and women alike.
Reading those words cracked something open. They showed me how much I still didn’t know about the Jewish experience and the spiritual toolkits of my foremothers. I realized that, in my spiritual journey of connecting more deeply with myself, my ancestors and the earth, embracing my own femininity could be a key.
This was a radical invitation — especially because I had been raised in a “feminist” world that taught me I could be just like the boys. Somehow, I had internalized the message that to be an empowered woman meant not really accepting myself as a woman at all. I was disconnected from my femaleness — my cycles, my body, my softness — and suddenly, I realized that Jewish rituals could offer me a way back in.
There was a time when I considered going to Rabbinical school, but every time I got quiet with myself and truly listened, the answer that came back to me was “no”. I don’t believe I’m meant to be a Rabbi — but, even before I met my husband, I do believe I was mean to be a Rebbetzin: a teacher and holder of embodied Jewish traditions, shared from a woman’s perspective.
The truth is that Reform and Conservative rabbinical schools don’t teach the kind of Torah I offer: they’re all focused on masculine Judaism, like leading prayer services and studying Talmud. There is no formal ordination in the embodied, feminine, yet traditional Jewish wisdom I practice and teach. But this tradition is no less real: it is part of the “white fire Torah” the kabbalists (Jewish mystics) talk about. The Torah that lives in the blank white spaces around the black letters on the Torah scroll. I’ve spent years studying, listening, holding space, and guiding others in containers that are grounded, relational, and deeply Jewish. I’ve led Rosh Chodesh circles and mikveh immersions, taught classes on intimacy and family holiness, and supported couples and individuals in bringing more meaning into their relationships.
My work is both ancient and contemporary, rooted in the wisdom passed down through generations, and also informed by modern frameworks in sexuality education, relationship science, and spiritual counseling. I live my life in partnership with my husband, Rabbi Sam Blustin, who has a pulpit at a beautiful synagogue in the Conservative movement, and in the way a Chabad or otherwise Orthodox couple might do, we learn and discuss together what Jewish wisdom has to say on various topics. Sam often says that everything he knows about family holiness and women’s ritual comes from learning with me, and in turn, he has taught me a lot about Halacha (Jewish law), how the system works, and what rabbinic sources may be important for my work.
I'm deeply inspired by women like Blu Greenberg, who modeled what it looks like to offer spiritual leadership in the home, the mikveh, and the everyday. While her husband Rabbi Yitz Greenberg is known for his theological writing, Blu focused on the lived rhythms of Jewish practice — the texture of a Jewish life, not just its structure.
Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis carried a torch of spiritual outreach, guiding thousands through teaching, empathy, and deep religious conviction. Both women expanded what it means to be a Rebbetzin — and showed that this title can hold real substance and impact.
What I Do as a Modern Rebbetzin:
Facilitate Rosh Chodesh circles and women's gatherings
Guide immersive mikveh rituals and transitions
Teach embodied Jewish wisdom, especially around intimacy and family life
Offer one-on-one coaching and spiritual support
Support women and couples through life cycle transitions — including marriage, birth, menstruation, healing, and grief
Create spaces for honest conversation, joy, and connection within tradition
Partner with my husband in spiritual leadership: researching and refining sermons, organizing musicians for communal prayer, hosting gatherings, and holding the often-invisible emotional and logistical labor of community care
To be a Rebbetzin, in this time and place, is to step into a kind of spiritual leadership that is relational, feminine, and deeply rooted in Jewish tradition — even if it doesn’t come with a formal title or pulpit.
So when I call myself a modern Rebbetzin, I’m naming something ancient and something new.
I’m honoring the women who came before me, and carving space for those who come next.
I’m claiming this role as mine — and offering it as a path for others, too.
If you've ever longed for spiritual leadership that lives in the home, the body, and the rhythms of real life — you're not alone. And there’s an invitation for you here.
