The Good-Girl Script is Not Femininity. It’s Training.
I grew up learning the same lesson many women did: keep the peace. Don’t embarrass anyone. Be loyal even when it’s killing you.
I knew how to turn rage into “wisdom” so I’d still be seen as good. So men could nod approvingly and say, what a loyal woman. So women could use me as proof that being silent and selfless still works.
There was a moment a man looked at me and admired my loyalty like it was a badge of honor. And my stomach turned. Because I knew what he was really praising: my starvation. My ability to keep my mouth shut and call it virtue. In that instant, I felt sick. Like my whole body finally admitted: I’ve become a delivery system for the good-girl fantasy.
The script ran deep. I was rewarded for obedience, emotional self-control, and dressing just right so I wouldn’t threaten anyone. And the cost? My voice. The words I swallowed when I should have spoken. The years I translated my soul into something soft enough for other people to handle.
I sat in rooms with men who thought they were wise, while I stayed silent to feel safe. I handed my power over to people who couldn’t have carried it if they tried. I lost years pretending I was a “wise, non-threatening oracle” while I was actually bleeding inside.
This is what “niceness” costs. You erase yourself and call it strategy.
And it’s not just family or culture—it’s spiritual spaces too. Every time someone praised my “depth” but ignored my rage. Every time they said, you’re so powerful, but only when I was calm. When my fire showed, they called it ego. When I had boundaries, they said I was unhealed. When I was hungry for more, they said it was shadow.
That’s how women get manipulated into performing enlightenment instead of living it. We become safe oracles—able to name everything but never break the spell.
And then I’d scroll online and see femininity reduced to a woman in a flower dress waiting to be chosen. Soft voices. Lowered eyes. Pretend passivity. Meanwhile, the real voice—the feral, erotic, holy, unapologetic voice—rots in the basement.
I’ve swallowed enough.
True femininity is not obedience. It’s not smiling while you die inside. It’s not shrinking so he feels big. Real femininity is feral. It’s erotic. It’s loud. It’s prophetic. It doesn’t wait for permission.
When I finally stopped cooperating, my voice landed like a blade. Women who hadn’t named themselves yet recoiled. Lovers who needed me broken panicked. Friends tried to drag me back into the version of me that kept them comfortable. Even teachers assumed I needed “shaping,” as if I was still an artist in training. They didn’t understand—I wasn’t refining a brand, I was shedding a skin.
And it shook people. At my father’s funeral, I walked in no longer shy and compliant. I was sovereign, clear, unapologetic. My own family stared because I wasn’t translating my power into something palatable anymore. I stopped making myself legible to people who never really saw me.
I wore masks to survive:
The proper one at parties.
The mystic who needed nothing in romance.
The quiet oracle who never rattled anyone in spiritual rooms.
I chose lovers who couldn’t match my fire so I wouldn’t be “too much.” I became the mirror in sisterhoods, affirming everyone while starving for a space where I could finally be raw without being punished.
That’s the taboo I’m tearing open: the good-girl script is not femininity. It’s training. And I’m done carrying it.
If you’re done playing holy while disappearing, step into Obsidian Naming Rite before someone else brands you with their lie
