The Body of Every Woman

I saw Antigone (This Play I Read in High School) at The Public Theater during one of its final previews on March 8, 2026 – International Women’s Day. After experiencing the play as a woman, I found it a serendipitous homage to the holiday.

Written by Anna Ziegler and directed by Tyne Rafaeli, Antigone (This Play I Read in High School) transforms Sophocles’ classic tragedy into a fierce and intimate glimpse into the intensities of womanhood. The reimagined events of Antigone’s story are narrated by a modern, humble Pittsburgh woman who did, in fact, read Antigone in high school. She is known as The Chorus, played by Celia Keenan-Bolger. All the while, the punk Antigone of ancient Greece, played by Susannah Perkins, rocks a studded leather jacket and enacts the story in real time. The Chorus navigates her own life by looking to Antigone’s, having long admired her unwavering sense of self and courage to stand alone in her beliefs.

In Sophocles’ original, Antigone’s rebellion manifests as she defiantly buries her deceased brother Polyneices against the orders of her uncle, the newly appointed king, Creon. Creon considers Polyneices a traitor for attacking their homeland, Thebes, and thus demands that his corpse remain unburied in shame. Upon learning of Antigone’s illegal burial of her brother, Creon orders her to be killed. Before the execution, however, Antigone hangs herself.

Whereas Sophocles’ Antigone spotlights Polyneices’s body, Ziegler’s adaptation refocuses the story onto Antigone herself and, more specifically, her bodily autonomy. Just before her wedding to Haemon, played by Calvin Leon Smith, Antigone finds out that she’s pregnant. Her sister Ismene, played by Haley Wong, chastises her for having sex and advises her to take more time to create a plan of action. But Antigone already knows that she is not ready to have a child and that time is pressing, so she clandestinely gets an abortion.

Abortions are illegal under Creon’s rule, but Antigone remains assured in herself and her decision, however painful. She explains to Creon, played by Tony Shalhoub, that she had to go through with the abortion, but he is a staunch defender of the law. He presents Antigone with an ultimatum: either she apologizes publicly, or she is executed.

Creon would rather sacrifice his niece’s life than surrender his reputation as king.

He even admits that Antigone is right to choose what actions to take regarding her own body, but he refuses to denounce the law. He fears that accepting Antigone’s actions will tarnish “the state,” Thebes, deeming it vulnerable.

Tucked in the centerfold of the production’s Playbill, a note from playwright Ziegler dissected this dynamic brilliantly, explaining that “governing collapses when the body of the state is unjustly pitted against individual bodies.”

In Ziegler’s play, Antigone’s body is at the forefront of this message. She is a reminder of humanity amid Creon’s dichotomous, naïve reign. She is a reminder of the very real individuals impacted by the laws.

The government should function to serve the people and not the other way around.

Antigone, in her obstinate sense of justice, cannot apologize for what she’s done. She knows that she will die at the hands of the government because of a choice that she made with her own body and because of her choice to own that decision.

Those who felt compelled to invalidate and criminalize Antigone’s choices in turn invalidated and criminalized her existence – ultimately resulting in her death.

The final moments of Antigone (This Play I Read in High School) were perhaps the most evocative. Antigone begins bleeding out while locked in her prison cell, waiting to be executed, and The Chorus enters Antigone’s world for the first time, without hesitation, to embrace her.

Their stories intertwine as their bodies do the same. Together, they undergo the most intense, singular, and almost otherworldly experiences: The Chorus gives birth, while Antigone dies. The Chorus exclaims that she feels like she’s dying, and Antigone knows she’s dying. They expel a synchronous, guttural growl as if literally fighting for their lives.

The Chorus and Antigone gripping each other’s arms, desperately trying to survive in tandem, to me, was the most ferocious picture of love – of a mutual, instinctual empathy and determination to protect each other. In the audience, I caught a glimpse of a woman crying, with another woman wrapping her arm around her, stroking her arm affectionately.

Watching The Chorus and Antigone – two women of entirely different lifetimes and circumstances – hold each other and instantly inspire other women to hold each other too, made me feel so proud to be a woman. I was overcome with immense gratitude for my own mom and all the women in my life who nourish me with care, support, and safety. I feel equally as grateful for and empowered by all the women who came before us; it’s not lost on me that I can exist today the way I do because of them.

Though their pains emerge from different places, The Chorus and Antigone still aim to comfort and shield each other from harm, united in the shared experience of womanhood.

Notably, womanhood does not revolve around the reproductive system nor the aftermath of getting pregnant, whether that be getting an abortion or having a child. Womanhood is not defined by, but accompanied by, an underlying theme of having to ceaselessly defend one’s autonomy and right to choose for oneself.

Antigone confirms this perpetual battle in unison with The Chorus and Ismene, declaring, “My body is the body of every woman.”

Not for its shape, size, color, stature, or even its features. Her body “is the body of every woman” because it is subject to colonization, criticism, objectification, exploitation, and utmost stripping of autonomy. This is the universal aspect of the woman’s body. The woman’s body may be a target susceptible to attack, but it is not defenseless. Antigone proves that women exercising their right to choose and to use their voices is the most revolutionary act they can commit.

Creon’s law relies on women being compliant and willing to abandon their right to choose. Antigone refuses to validate this law. She refuses to apologize for breaking the law. She refuses to adhere to a law that only exists to protect “the state” from change and upheaval at the expense of women. Her refusal is a triumph. Even after Antigone dies, her spirit remains undefeated.

Ziegler illuminates this spirit that has always been inherent to Antigone’s character, from her origin with Sophocles around 442 BCE to her evolution with Ziegler in 2026.

“Antigone means ‘against going.’ Against disappearance,” she writes. “Her rebellious act doesn’t finish the story; it allows it to continue. The Chorus is able to speak because Antigone spoke first.”

*This piece was published in Both Sides Now on March 20, 2026