“Strong Female Lead”

I’ve been thinking a lot about how women are written in films and books lately.

Once upon a time, the phrase “strong female lead” meant something. It was a challenge to lazy writing, a reminder that women deserved complexity. But somewhere along the way, it calcified into one of the most tedious, soulless tropes in modern storytelling.

I know her before she even opens her mouth. She’ll be sarcastic. Emotionally unavailable. Preternaturally good at violence—especially beating men three times her size because training. She’ll have no softness, no domesticity, no inconvenient need for connection—unless the plot demands it, in which case she’ll bury it beneath disdain.

We’ve decided that for a woman to be powerful, she has to mimic the most toxic traits of a man. And then we pat ourselves on the back for being “progressive.”

Endurance? That’s weakness now. To endure makes you anti-feminist, a pussy even—because apparently loyalty, patience, or putting up with hardship is beneath us, sister. Emotional intelligence? Forget it. Quiet resilience? Outdated. Today, you’re only strong if you can smirk while knocking someone unconscious.

I can’t stand it.

Take Clarice Starling. (Yes, I’ll die on this hill.) Clarice is a woman in a man’s world, but she doesn’t try to out-bark them. She doesn’t sneer her way through scenes or snap necks for applause. She survives by being better: more principled, more observant, more determined. She cares. She notices things others miss. And when men underestimate her, she lets them. Then she gets the job done anyway. She stares down misogyny not with brute force, but with composure, intelligence, grace.

Tell me that isn’t real feminine strength.

But today? That character would be laughed out of a writers’ room. Too quiet. Too “soft.” Not bad bitch enough.

We’ve trained women to recoil from nurturing instincts, as if caring makes you unappealing. As if you can only protect people if it’s accompanied by a weapon and a one-liner. Cold is aspirational. Detachment is chic. Empathy is embarrassing.

And in the process, we’re losing something sacred.

Because the truth is—however unfashionable this sounds—many women are kind. Not all the time, not all of us, but often. We feel things. We cry at injured birds. We check on friends when they go silent. We wrap ourselves around those we love like a shield. That instinct doesn’t make us weak; it makes us irreplaceable.

Yet in a culture obsessed with dominance, that kind of strength has no currency.

Now the template is simple: be hot. Be unbothered. Be terrifying. Be the “cold girl” who smokes, fucks, and scowls her way through life with all the emotional depth of a zombie. God forbid you be loyal. God forbid you care.

But what message are we sending young women? That selflessness is laughable? That loyalty is cringe? That kindness is a liability?

Some of the strongest people I’ve ever known were carers. Mothers. Women who endured. Women who cleaned up after broken men, raised children alone, swallowed pain and still asked about your day. Women who fight for a better world—not by dictating, but by educating with heart.

Is that not strength?

I don’t want to be feared. I want to be valued—for empathy, for loyalty, for the kind of softness that refuses extinction. Because if strength only means becoming like men, then we’re not evolving—we’re erasing.

Maybe it comes down to why we consume art. Some people want escapism. Me? I want reflection. I want to see women like my mother. Women like Clarice. Women who make me feel seen.

We don’t need to become men to be likeable characters. We don’t need to win physical fights to be strong.

We’ve always been strong.

And it’s long overdue for films—and the world—to remember that.