Holiness in the Heart of Hollywood: From Modeling to Meaning

It is possible to remain holy in the heart of Hollywood – but it takes emunah and a kind of inner strength that is often tested, for our own good.

Modesty came naturally to me. I’ve always been a deeply intuitive, mystical person. I’m aware of energy and how what we take in, what we wear, what we read, what we watch, shapes how we feel inside. Spiritual words move me easily. Even as a child, I felt drawn toward holiness not as an obligation, but as something very instinctive. I was raised in Los Angeles, which of course is what makes this story ironic. But I also come from a family whose lineage runs deep in Torah and tradition. My maiden name is Abehsera –  I share the same family name as Baba Sali (we are distant cousins). Over the years, we hosted his wife, Lala Simi, in our home, where she gave brachot to people who came seeking guidance. Simply being in her presence brought me to tears. I have photos with her from different stages of my life, and I’ve come to see those moments not as coincidence, but as conscience – a yetzer tov quietly guiding me back whenever I drifted.

So when I was first scouted to be a model at 18, my answer was immediate: no. It didn’t feel like me. Even then, with temptation and the yetzer hara doing its best, the idea felt disconnected from who I was and how I was raised. Then I was scouted again. And then a third time. And yes, third time’s a charm. Or in this case, a test of character. Eventually, I agreed. I told myself I could always walk away. What I didn’t understand then was that what you lose in certain environments isn’t obvious at first. It happens slowly, layer by layer, until you’re left with something far more costly than opportunity: a quiet loss of yourself.

The first time I saw myself on a billboard on Santa Monica Boulevard, one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles – I expected to feel proud. I stood there feeling oddly invisible. I remember staring at that billboard and thinking, Modeling for what? And then what? What does that make me? Not long after, I started making small choices that reflected that confusion. The first time I wore pants didn’t feel dramatic, but I knew. It wasn’t just about the pants. It was the beginning of stepping slightly outside of who I had always been. Wearing pants became normal. And while that may not seem significant to someone else, for me it marked a shift. I have always taken refinement and growth seriously. This didn’t feel like growth. It felt like drifting.

At one point, my agency would invite me to industry parties with celebrities. I remember standing in a room next to Paris Hilton and Adrian Grenier, watching people dance on tables. My cousin stood beside me, yet I felt completely alone. I knew, without question, that this was not my world. Modeling introduced something I hadn’t experienced before – not chaos, but misalignment. A quiet drifting away from my internal essence of who I was. When you aren’t living aligned with who you truly are, something inside you weakens. And when that inner compass weakens, your standards can slowly lower, not because you don’t have them, but because you’re no longer standing firmly in them. If you don’t stand for something strongly, you can begin allowing the wrong people into your life, which is how, at the early age of 22, I went through a divorce. And while I didn’t lose myself completely, I can see now how misalignment in one area quietly spills into others.

Still, even in the modeling world, I tried to hold firm boundaries. My contract stated clearly that I would not work on Shabbat, that I would not wear anything revealing, and that bikinis were not an option. I’m sure to them I was considered difficult and odd, but selling my soul was never an option. Many significant campaigns fell on Shabbat. At first, I tried not to care. But one opportunity – a Pantene Pro-V campaign abroad, finally had me distraught. Here was the opportunity to have a completely tzniut commercial for hair, and it once again, it fell on Shabbat. I cried, intuitively knowing this would be my cue to close that door. My father gently said, “It’s just not meant to be for you.” He was right. Looking back, I see it clearly: Hashem was protecting me.

Life moved forward. I remarried, Baruch Hashem, to a good, healthy mensch. Over the years, I moved through phases of skirts and dresses, then pants again. After Oct. 7, 2023, living in the States, I felt helpless. I hosted tehillem groups. I baked challah. I lit extra Shabbat candles. But internally, I kept asking: how do I deepen my connection to Hashem beyond gestures? In that searching, something stirred inside me. I returned to skirts and dresses. Months later, I slipped back into pants. But every time I wore them, something felt physically uncomfortable and spiritually off. I didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t feel feminine. I didn’t feel regal. I believe women are queens, and I never felt like one when I dressed in ways that contradicted my true self.

If there’s one thing children are masters at, it’s telling the truth. They are unfiltered and perfectly timed. How many times has your child told you that you have a booger in public? Or that your coffee breathe is stinky. No, they don’t edit. They simply say what they see. One cold day at home, I put on leggings, and my son looked at me and said simply, “Mommy, I can see your booty butt. Why are you naked?” I laughed, and then thought, wait a minute here. On Shabbat mornings, when I dressed in a feminine dress, my daughter would look at me and say softly, “Wow, Mommy, you look like a real princess.” And my son would say, “Wow, Mommy, you look so beautiful.” Different words. Same message. That was the moment it stuck.

I realized that the way I present myself is the version of womanhood my children absorb. I want them to think of their mother as regal, dignified, elegant and modest, not for appearance’s sake, but because how we carry ourselves reflects who we are. Children feel it. And even if they can’t articulate it, they understand it internally. Something in them recognizes alignment. I still wear pants to the gym. But even there, I cover up more than I used to with a sweatshirt around my waist and choose the back of the room. I’ve learned that I don’t thrive in being looked at, I thrive in being aligned. We are all works in progress. But in daily life, I no longer dress in ways that disconnect me from who I know myself to be. And something unexpected happened when I made that decision: my boundaries strengthened. My clarity sharpened. My alignment returned and I wasn’t becoming someone new. I was returning to who I had always been.

What I’ve learned is this: some of the strongest, boldest refinements we make don’t come from lectures or even shiurim. They can come from quiet places and mostly from our children who are pure and see what we sometimes miss, or choose not to see. If we pay close attention, they guide us back to ourselves. Even what feels like a small change, how we dress, how we show up – can move us closer to living in our full potential. Modesty isn’t about restriction. It’s about alignment. And when we dress like who we truly are, we don’t just look different, we live differently. We become the women we were always meant to be.

Rebekah Garfunkel is a writer, mother and former model who explores modesty, identity, motherhood and spiritual alignment through lived experience. She is the founder of a company that celebrates and honors mothers.