Dear Kallah teacher,
I wish I could truly send you this letter. I imagine you opening it and reading it, and somehow that would transform my painful experience into a meaningful one. But I cannot send it. It would stir up things that are no longer worth stirring up. Healing is the path I have chosen. So instead I am sending my words out to land where they land. Words about my own experience and the experiences of other women I have spoken to. I write this not out of spite or anger, but so that things can change for the better — for the women you have already taught, and for the women you have yet to teach. I hope these words, flowing from my heart, reach the hearts that are soft enough to feel my pain, and tender enough to spare another young bride from ever needing to learn all of this the way I did. A woman who sits down before her kallah teacher opens her heart to receive the lessons you will pour into it. You have an untouched beach before you, and it is you who places the first footsteps on that sand. Those steps must be well-placed, because the path you set is the path your kallahs will follow. What you tell her about marriage can empower her — or leave her with mistaken ideas about what marriage is meant to be.
Please allow me to be frank and speak about abuse for a moment. Do you tell your kallahs about abuse, in all its forms? Do you tell her that abuse is not only physical, but also emotional and verbal — the put-downs, the constant criticism, the small daily cruelties that wear a woman down until she no longer recognizes herself? Do you teach her that when she finds herself unravelled, emptied of her own personality, this is not normal? Do you help her see that it is not within the realm of a healthy marriage for a husband to make her feel crazy, unlovable, and worthless? Do you tell her that she has a right to say no, and that this is an absolute, unchangeable right? Do you tell her that she is not the only one in the marriage held to a standard of behavior — that the duties of kindness and respect run in both directions? It brings tears to my eyes to think that there are still women being taught that their only role is to yield, to accommodate, to make it work no matter the cost to themselves.
You, as a kallah teacher, must be able to see the signs, the red flags, long before your pupil notices them herself. You have been part of ten, fifty, a hundred other marriages, while for her this is most likely the first. It is up to you to prepare yourself in advance: what will I do when I see those red flags, those unhealthy patterns? Do I have people I can turn to for guidance — mentors, Rabbanim? I am writing because I believe we have moved past the days when a kallah teacher taught only the technical halachos. The women getting married today need to know what is normal and what is not. They need a reminder of their rights — as a woman and as a human being — a reminder of their strength and of their options when things do not turn out as they had hoped. They need support, and when things go wrong, they need a safety net. They need to know that even long after the final lesson, and long after the wedding, you are still there for them, no matter what. I was grateful to have your support after my wedding. You were there on the other end of the line, listening as I tried to put words to a gut-feeling, a knot twisting deep in my stomach. For those phone calls I am still indebted to you. But how sad it was when you were too afraid to admit, even to yourself, that what I was describing was an unhealthy marriage. You reminded me to work even harder on my middos, to try even harder to please him, and so, gently and elegantly, you shoved it back under the carpet. Under the carpet and deeper into my broken heart.
Didn’t you see that I am a people pleaser by nature? I was not the one who needed to be told to work on her middos. I was already trying, already bending, already making myself smaller. Yes, every marriage asks us to grow, to be flexible, to learn to communicate, and I wanted those skills. But there is a difference between growing and disappearing. We are not meant to feel that we must erase ourselves in order to survive.
I felt that something was wrong. I reached out to you because I trusted you. And not only did you not live up to that trust — you asked me to betray the trust I had in myself. It takes courage, it takes Da’as Torah, and it takes broad shoulders to admit that a marriage is not healthy. But isn’t this something I should have been able to rely on you for? Isn’t this what you signed up for when you chose to teach kallahs?
I will wrap up now. I have said what I needed to say. Just one last thought: As the kallah sits across the table from you — ready with her fresh notebook, her shining diamond ring, and her open heart — what tools will you give her, tools that will give her the best chance to succeed on the beautiful journey she is about to begin? Will it be a truthful picture, with empowering messages and reassuring words? Or not?
Ultimately: what footprints will you leave as you walk across that untouched beach of an open heart?
Signed, A kallah-that-once-was
A note from the editors: If you recognize yourself in these words, please know you are not alone, and that a healthy marriage is never built on your erasure. Reaching out is a sign of strength, not failure. Please speak to a rav, a therapist, or someone you trust who can help you find safety and support.