I’d put this on the back burner even though it’s been percolating for some time now. I’d thought, maybe it’s too much outrage, maybe an over-reaction, maybe just chill out and shut up, right? Those voices decrying feminine rage are so loud and busy in my psyche despite years of actively working to render them silent. But then, this morning, I read an article (https://www.theguardian.com/film/2025/may/06/misogyny-slop-it-ends-with-us-america-rightwing-blake-lively-justin-baldoni?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other) and that was all it took to rekindle the discontent and urgency. It reminded me that nothing has changed. It echoed the sentiments that I’d battled when I was a student studying violence against women and children and later, an advocate supporting victims of domestic and sexual violence. It revived the jack-hammer of insistence that had pounded away in my brain when I, at long last, sat down to write my memoir and was tempted to whitewash the blatant sexism, abuse, and misogyny because I actually cared deeply about many of the people I wrote about, and, well, they didn’t really mean it that way, right?

This one is going to be longer than my usual. I know that people generally have only minutes’ worth of capacity for attention for any given piece before moving on, so I suggest consuming this slow-food style, with a glass of wine or a cup of tea and plenty of space for reflection.

Before I launch, I acknowledge passionately and with full conviction that the conditioning and training inherent in our patriarchal system has wreaked havoc on men as well as women and just as women are compelled to choose to break free, so must men. Rest assured that I have no urge to disparage men just because they’re men, especially those I cherish, and the millions like them. The issue arises when they choose to double-down on the status quo instead, insisting it’s some sort of god-ordained, natural order of things.

Because, of course, it is not. And to those who are racing and raging and demanding we go back to the good old days—hell hath no fury…

This began as a piece about recent films portraying female characters in new and exciting, boundary-defying roles. I am aware that I am but one person, with a subjective opinion, but the narrative seemed to be, look, progress—we’re casting women in provoking roles, edgy roles, casting them in a new light—granting the over-forty ladies the leading narratives. Don’t we deserve a gold star?

Um, not so much.

I Didn’t Love Nightbitch.

Or, The Substance.

Or, Bridget Jones—Mad About the Boy.

Or, Babygirl.

I’m scratching my head over the rush to cast mature women opposite very young men romantically, as if it will somehow make up for centuries-worth of stories of young women, sometimes girls even, with older men. One does not cancel out the other and it’s presumptive and patronizing to assume that as women, we will somehow feel vindicated or pacified by Hollywood finally allowing women to behave just like men—the assumption being that that is exactly what we’ve been pining for. To add insult to injury, even the role’s reversal isn’t equal. Men have long been portrayed as entitled to trade in for the newer model as a matter of natural impulse and evolutionary programming; whereas the women in these stories are awash in shame, surprise, gratitude, and disbelief that anyone, especially those men-children would even consider them attractive.

Take Babygirl, for example, since it is the one that I had the most passionate reaction to. I forced myself to watch it even though I’d recoiled from the idea of it after seeing just the trailer and reading the reviews. I told myself that I wasn’t allowed to have an opinion without first giving it a chance. But cringing on the sofa for nearly two hours only reinforced and magnified my original outrage.

The lead character has climbed the ladder as far as she can. A female CEO who describes her position in leadership as a nurturing position—when was the last time you heard a male CEO describe his role as a nurturing one? Straight out of the gate, she’s tied tight to her natural female state. She has the power, the control, the brains and the brawn that it takes to fill such a role—and yet uncertainty, insecurity, and the repulsive nature of her aging body eat away at her. She manages her façade like she manages her company, impeccably and gracefully—until he comes along.

The man-child, the twenty-five-year-old intern, so sure of himself, unapologetic, entitled and bold, who brings her to her knees (literally) in no time at all. And we watch as this woman in her prime, in a position of power, willingly submits to being infantilized by an infant. He proceeds to give her just what she’s been craving, the thing she’d been missing all those years—domination by a man. He takes her through her paces, forcing her to drink milk from a dish like a dog, rewarding her with affirmations, good girl when she obeys and punishing her with threats, i only have to make one call and you lose everything, when she tries to break it off. He insults and degrades her—she’s desperate for more. He’s aloof and all-knowing—she is begging him (the male child) to teach her (the adult woman) about pleasure. We’re supposed to experience it as sexy, kinky, a woman daring to reveal unashamedly what gets her hot and bothered. But what I witnessed was yet another assertion that what really turns us on in this post-feminist world is force—it’s what we’ve been missing all along, the thing we’ve been unwilling to admit brings us to the edge—domination, which is the very thing we tried to deconstruct to begin with.

I’m enthusiastically in support of women pursuing their pleasure, and candid conversations about the shape and design of that desire are far overdue. But Babygirl was not that. It was the same tired narrative wrapped in what was supposed to be shiny new feminist packaging.

That intern is unafraid because he already knows the world belongs to him, the world that she had to fight tooth and nail for. He already knows it as a matter of fact. It doesn’t matter how the power dynamic appears at face value, he will always be the one with the power because when it comes to being female in our world—she will always be the one who is demonized. If she is the intern, she seduced the old man CEO; if she is the CEO, she beguiled the helpless baby-man intern, or, alternatively, wrapped him in her web of desperation. She is/has everything at face value. She’s wicked smart, successful at home and in the office. She is wealthy, and modern, but still small, still apologizing for her existence, still begging to shrink, to be cut down to size.

It broke my heart because we could have a real discussion about women’s pleasure and fullness, a truly groundbreaking conversation that grants space for mutual respect and for once, a long-term relationship that doesn’t require broken trust in order to flourish. But instead, it appears, we are exploring female desire as a repackaging of male desire and male fantasies into a female narrative.

And that is not progress; it is laziness.

Which brings me to Nightbitch.

To be honest, I haven’t a clue what I was supposed to draw from this story. It is based on a book, which compels me to give it a bit of a wide berth seeing as how every author writes from a place that is sacred to them. I honor that.

It’s the insistence of the groundbreaking nature of the film that lends itself to irritation. In summary, a woman relinquishes her career as a successful artist to step into the role of full-time parent. She discovers that it’s not as shiny and flowery and straightforward as she thought, but grueling, draining and crazymaking as well. Her journey is feral, and primal, and animalistic, and she is at the mercy of the highs of mothering hormones and the glow of loving a thing so entirely and completely, and the lows of zombie-like states in which she has nothing more to give.

The survivalist and animalistic intensity of instinct rang true for me, as did the fatigue and urge to knock a guy upside the head when he tells you to “just make a schedule.” But the rest of it? Fantastical. It was entertaining. I laughed aloud several times, but I resented the depiction of motherhood as a complete loss of control and self-awareness. I mean, she had one kid, it’s not hard to shower when you have one kid. I never understood the urge to brag about the lack of self-care, to wear it as a sort of badge of honor. I had to shower to stay sane. I’d put both the kids in the bathroom with me, lock the door and talk to them while I refreshed my body.

But that’s just a silly sidetrack.

What I really took issue with was the ending. At a certain point, her husband proclaims that he can’t understand her anymore—she’s changed, she’s not the person he married, is no longer fun or attractive. And so, she kicks him out. And when it’s his turn with the kid, he actually has to parent and begins to understand the intensity a little. And she has time to go back to work and creates art that celebrates motherhood. And suddenly, she’s back on the scene, seen and pursued by colleagues who had shunned her, adored by the “working world”. And he shows up, watches the adoration, falls back in love—she’s attractive again. She takes him back and they share the parenting so they can both have fulfilling careers—a modern, healthy couple who’ve managed to locate mutual respect.

Brilliant—theoretically. Except that she had to turn back into the thing that he and everyone else recognized as a successful human in order to be seen.

Everything before had been so raw and challenging, mind-bending even. That ending was too wrapped up, bowed up, neat, prescribed, and recycled. I couldn’t locate the feminist revolutionary part of it. Because of that ending, I was unable to appreciate the raw reframing of the female experience. After seemingly walking us through an exaggerated metamorphosis of stepping into motherhood and the invisibility and rudderless feeling of a non-career path, the film still marked the loss of career as a loss of identity, and even though we’re supposed to understand that she finally found a worthwhile purpose in motherhood, the world around her still didn’t re-legitimize her until she stepped back into her career again while at the same time stepping fully into motherhood—the having it all mythology that we have been compelled to accept. Her husband didn’t see her again until he caught a fresh glimpse of who she was before babies, an updated version, yes, but still, it was motherhood plus. It appears we are still unable to demand that society accept motherhood alone as honorable and legitimate. The dominate narrative is that mothers always feel human again once they get back to the work that matters—the kind that makes money, and has prestige and visibility. Mothers without that still remain unseen.

The film doesn’t confront the actual level of difficulty that exists in trying to get back into a career after taking time off to parent. It doesn’t address the fact that not a single thing one tackles as a mother can be written into a resume as qualification for a position. Unpaid work, no matter how grueling, all-consuming or refined, qualifies one for nothing in the paid universe.

The transition from full-time mother to periphery mother (also known as empty-nesting) is just as fraught with distorted expectations. It is as impactful on a person’s identity and sense of purpose as a transition from one career to another in any midlife shift, but the seismic implications in this particular transition are often reduced to triviality and a lack of diversity. Mothers find themselves ridiculed and dismissed for mothering full-time, and then struggling to find their footing when that rug is unceremoniously yanked from under their feet. People shake their heads and exchange knowing sighs and I told you so(s).

All she had was her kids. She spent all those years completely wrapped up in them and now that they’re gone, she’s lost her only identity.

Tut—Tut.

This idea that motherhood is a thing one should be able to simply switch off is insulting at best and misogynistic at worst. We would never expect a man to transition with ease in midlife to a whole new career path, nor would we deny him the depression, aimlessness, and heartbreak that comes with the “reinvention” oneself at a time when most things feel settled and cemented.

But the rules and expectations are different for mothers. My kids still had one foot in the door when everyone and anyone was eagerly inquiring as to my “reinvention” or waxing oratorical about my ability to fill all my free time. The pressure was relentless. And as I had so many times before, at so many stages of my life, I began to frantically evaluate my choices and where I’d gone wrong. How could I not have a ready-made career waiting in the wings? Had I missed the memo again? Why was I not super pumped to jump back into college or back into a 9-5 routine?

I resent the implication that I am less accomplished because I failed to fill out my resume; the insinuation that if all you do is your kids, you’re either lazy and uninspired or you’re lucky because you don’t have to work. Either way, you’re a thing that exists on the periphery of people in the real world doing real work that has a tangible impact on—something. Once in a while, those real people doing the real jobs throw you a half-hearted bone “being a mom is such a big job, it’s so important.” But that’s usually the extent of it. They pause uncomfortably, shuffling, shifting, uncertain of where the conversation can go from there. I mean, really, what is there to talk about if all someone does is pack lunches, cart kids around, scrub toilets and gossip with the other minivan drivers while they watch the soccer game?

Around such people I’d feel pathetically uninteresting and when face to face with a woman who had no choice but to earn a paycheck while mothering her kids, the feeling was even worse—a crippling guilt and insufficiency. No one is singing the praises of the woman whose income isn’t necessary to keep the lights on. In those instances, one has no right to feel overwhelmed, exhausted or in any way at the wit’s end because, at least you don’t have to “work.”

I’ve grown weary of women can be just like men and that it is somehow the path to equality. I can only speak for myself, but I’ve never wanted to be just like men; I’ve only ever wanted the support and space to be fully me.

If we really want to redefine what it means to be a woman in the world who can stand in the full glory of her power, we need to stop comparing women to men and assuming we can tell the exact same stories with a role reversal and a few tweaks.

It’s not daring, it’s not provocative, and it’s not revolutionary.

If we want to buck the system and overturn the status quo, we must rewrite the whole narrative, not just swap out a few words or phrases. I’m so sick of the portrayal of the stay-at-home mom who’s an unmotivated, self-sacrificing hot mess until she pulls it together and gets her old job back. I’m sick of the portrayal of the successful career woman as an unfulfilled, frigid, insecure ice queen who’s barely holding it all together.

Yes, we need to talk about work/life balance and yes, we need to confront the imbalance of domestic life. But wouldn’t be more productive to explore why women wrestle with invisibility and low self-worth as full-time caregivers? Wouldn’t it be more provocative to dive into the value we refuse to attribute to that work? Wouldn’t it be more honest to explore the lack of choice that most women grapple with and celebrate the uncanny ability to make lemonade out of very impossibly sour lemons? Wouldn’t it be more realistic to dive into storylines about people of all genders grappling with the division of labor and work/life/pleasure balance? Because I know that men are exhausted, too. I know that they ache to be gentle and sensitive and snuggle their babies and not be required to throw all of their energy into power and wealth.

I more than understand the need for visibility and to level the playing field but I fail to see how the stories above are progress and not just simple rebranding.

We grew weary of old, crusty men cast opposite perky young women, and rightfully so, but simply swapping roles doesn’t address the issue. True progress would be to see those same men cast opposite women their own age—reframing the narrative by dissecting a convergence of mature female energy with aging male energy. That is the conversation I would love to see. Women tend to give less fucks as they age, they tend to step more fully into themselves and become less easily manipulated or coerced. Let’s have a conversation around why aging men find themselves so turned off by that.

There will always be relationships with age gaps going both directions—that is not the subject of my gripe. And I’ll be the first to agree that the societal perception of older male as normal versus older female as abhorrent or predatory is absurd. It just feels disingenuous to create a few storylines with the roles reversed and then claim some kind of groundbreaking feminist upheaval.

How about a storyline about a full-time mom in which she’s not completely lost her mind and sense of herself? How about a show about a female CEO who runs a business that’s as sensitive to family sustenance as it is to a satisfied and successful office? A woman who is at home as she is at work instead of constantly making it an either/or situation? I would rather that women moving into business change the way we do business, instead of business changing the way we do woman. Men have been feeling the sting of work/life imbalance for ages, too. Restructuring expectations at work in order to accommodate the needs of women and families will only make our businesses better for everyone.

And that would be groundbreaking.

That would be delicious and daring.

What do I know? I’m not a CEO. I’m not a successful, powerful woman—by the most common accepted definitions of success—because success has been defined in terms of male success. Therefore, for a woman to be successful, she must step into the same world and be measured against the same expectations, and that is certainly not me.

But I am intelligent and experienced, motivated by love, integrity, compassion, and a passion for finding a better way. When women fought back against mandated mothering and household management, it was a fight for a choice to pursue whatever work they wanted, not for the delegitimization of the work they’d already been doing.

Boy did that plan go sideways.

And so, to circle back to the article I read this morning.

As long as we continue to make women and “women’s work” small, we will continue to live in a world where it is okay to demonize women who demand accountability and protection from men behaving badly. We will continue to normalize a world in which male violence is accepted—boys will be boys—and girls must keep their mouths shut and endure it for the sake of the fragile male ego. That is not the world I intent to gift to my daughter, or to my son. So please, let’s change the narrative in a fundamental sense, from a foundational perspective. Some structures must meet their demise—be dynamited into ruin in order to build something that will sustain the culture in a real sense.

We need to push back relentlessly against the assertion that angry feminists hate men. It’s bullshit. I’m an angry feminist, and I have a husband I cherish, a son and nephews that I adore, brothers and brothers-in-law who make me proud, and a whole line-up of male friends who are kind, compassionate, and respectful. Angry feminists will remain while misogyny persists. I am in no position to weigh in on the particulars of the Lively/Baldoni case—that’s not the point. The point is, this is a tired narrative, one in which every time a woman claims a man has behaved badly, the immediate reaction is to rip her to shreds and scramble for a list of reasons why she is vindictive and untruthful. And it shakes me to my core to watch so many histories repeating themselves in the rush to condone and defend male violence.

Period.

I’ve seen people insisting that a thing fights hardest right before it dies and that, at present, the patriarchy is dying and that is why it’s fighting so hard. I’m not convinced, but I want that to be true. The problem is that privilege, no matter the type, is far too comfortable a position to relinquish, and the absence of accountability is as rampant as it has ever been.

So go ahead. Repackage, reframe, rebrand—spin it any way you’d like. History will continue to repeat, unless we finally stop it.