While reading Parashat Shemot, I realized—with a kind of dawning horror —that our foundational narrative doesn't start with a dramatic miracle. It opens with a Pharaoh doing what authoritarian leaders do best: oppressing, fearing, and slaughtering people whose only crime was existing in numbers that made him nervous. After flourishing as a people, the Israelites are rounded up, enslaved, and murdered. This wouldn't be the last time a dictator would perform this particular dance. History, like our sacred texts, has a terrifying habit of rhyming with itself.

If fascist regimes have any silver lining—and I use that term loosely—it's that they reliably produce those who refuse to normalize the unthinkable. Parashat Shemot, which means "Names," wastes no time showing us that resistance came swiftly. But here's what struck me: those who acted first weren't the ones with leadership seminars under their belts or "Chosen One" written on their name tags.

Redemption, it turns out, begins with the overlooked—those without titles, qualifications, or sometimes even names. Of course, I’m talking about women.

The first acts of defiance come from midwives who politely decline Pharaoh's infanticide order. An unnamed mother turns her baby's crib into a DIY boat. Her unnamed daughter becomes history's first lifeguard. Even Pharaoh's daughter—who isn't granted the courtesy of a name or even a proper title beyond "daughter"—decides that maybe, just maybe, letting babies die is where she draws her moral line.

These women don't hold press conferences or organize marches. They don't confront power directly or wait for divine reassurance. Their courage is practical, embodied, and comes with zero guarantees—not of safety, not of success, not even of historical recognition beyond "Moshe's mom" or "that princess." They save lives first and skip the part where they ask if they're qualified.

Which brings us to Moshe himself, whose response to divine calling reads like a masterclass in imposter syndrome. God appears as a burning bush—because apparently regular bushes lack flair—and Moshe's immediate reaction is to list his inadequacies. "Who am I? What if they don't believe me? I'm not good with words." (Relatable content for anyone who's ever been asked to speak at a meeting.) The women acted without these existential performance reviews. They just did.

This is fascinating juxtaposition. The overlooked figures teach us that moral courage doesn't require a title or a burning bush—just the willingness to act when action matters. Meanwhile, Moshe teaches us what happens when courage becomes leadership: it gets complicated, messy, and frankly exhausting.

When Moshe finally confronts Pharaoh with his famous "Let my people go" line, nothing goes to plan. Pharaoh doubles down on the oppression. The Israelites lose faith. Moshe himself turns to God with essentially "Why did you make things worse?" Anyone who's tried to fix a systemic problem will recognize that hopelessness. 

This is what the midwives and mothers never had to experience—the grinding reality that leadership means staying to face the consequences. While they could act and fade back into anonymity, Moshe must endure the backlash, the doubt, the isolation, and the crushing weight of being responsible for an entire people's liberation. No wonder he tried to pass on that promotion.

Most of us, thankfully, won't be called to chat with flaming shrubbery or lead mass exoduses. But Parashat Shemot reminds us that we don't need those dramatic calls to refuse cruelty or protect the vulnerable. You don't need confidence to begin or authority to act. In fact, the most transformative courage often comes from those who feel least ready for it.

The parashat doesn't begin with miracles—it begins with people choosing basic decency within impossible systems. It suggests that the best leaders might be those who understand fear not because they've conquered it, but because they know it intimately. The overlooked create the conditions for change; the reluctant step forward to carry it through. Together, against all odds, they bend history toward freedom.

Even if they spend the entire time wondering if someone else might be better qualified for the job