“Strong Female Lead”

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

I believe the “strong female lead,” once a good thing, has now become one of the most tedious, soulless tropes we’ve ever produced. Every time I see her, I already know what she’s going to say. She’ll be sarcastic, emotionally unavailable, adept at violence—especially at beating men three times her size in combat because “training.” She’ll certainly have no softness, no domesticity, no need for connection unless it’s plot-convenient—and if she does, you can bet she’ll bury it beneath a layer of disdain.

We’ve decided that to be powerful, a woman must act like the most toxic version of a man. And then we pretend this is progressive.

There’s no room anymore for endurance. Enduring things these days makes you anti-feminist. Weak. A pussy, no less—because you should drop any dead weight or negativity, sister! There’s no room for emotional intelligence. For the kind of strength women actually live with—every day, quietly, in a hundred uncelebrated ways. We used to respect that. Now we act like it’s pathetic. Like you’re only strong if you can beat someone senseless and smirk while doing it.

I can’t stand it.

Take Clarice Starling—and yes, I’ll bring her up until the day I die. Clarice is a woman in a man’s world. She doesn’t try to be louder, or meaner, or more brutal to keep up. She doesn’t roll her eyes and start snapping necks. She survives by being better—more principled, more observant, more determined. She cares. She pays attention. And when men underestimate her, she lets them get on with it. Then she gets the job done anyway. She stares down misogyny and sexism with grace—not by brute force, but by being the smartest, calmest person in the room.

Tell me that isn’t a realistic depiction of feminine strength.

But today, that kind of character would be laughed out of a writer’s room. Too quiet. Too soft. Not “bad bitch” enough.

We’ve trained women to recoil from anything that resembles nurturing. As if caring too much makes you unappealing. As if you’re only allowed to protect others if it comes with a weapon and a catchphrase. The truth is, we’re in the middle of a mass rebranding—where being cold is aspirational, detachment is chic, and traditional female instincts are something to unlearn.

And I think we’re losing something sacred in the process.

Because I still believe—however unfashionable it sounds—that many women are inherently kind. Not all of us. Not all the time. But often, we feel for things. Deeply. Even women who want nothing to do with babies will still coo at a stray dog (like moi), cry over an injured bird, check on their friends when they go quiet, wrap themselves around people they love like a shield.

We don’t just love. We guard. And in a way that doesn’t require force.

And that instinct has no value in a world obsessed with dominance.

Now, the model is simple: be hot. Be unbothered. Be terrifying. Be a “cold girl” who smokes, who glares, who doesn’t care about anything but herself. Be the woman who fucks her way through life with all the emotional depth of a zombie. God forbid you be kind. God forbid you feel things.

This is about what we teach young women to become. We mock selflessness. We mock warmth. We mock any woman who devotes herself to something other than shameless self-promotion—self-obsession.

When did it become embarrassing to be loyal? To be intuitive? To be the person who sees what someone needs and gives it, even when it’s inconvenient?

When did we decide that kindness was cringe?

Some of the strongest people I’ve ever known were carers. Mothers. They were women who stayed and endured. Women who cleaned up after broken men, who raised kids alone, who swallowed pain and still asked you how your day was. Women who are activists, pushing for a better world, not through dictation, but heartfelt education.

Is that not strength?

I don’t want to be feared. I want to be valued—for the things this world keeps telling women to throw away. For empathy. For loyalty. For softness that refuses to go extinct.

Because if we keep insisting that strength means becoming like men, we’re not evolving. We’re erasing.

And there’s already enough of that going on as it is.

Maybe it comes down to why we consume art. I guess 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 every fight to be strong. We’ve always been strong.

And we’re long overdue for films—and a world—that reflect that.