Good Girls Didn’t Write History… So I Do and So Should You
And yes, it involves swearing, sex, and tacos at midnight
Sit up straight, but not too proud.
Stand tall, but not threateningly tall ~ we wouldn’t want your posture to scream “self-respect.”
Avoid eye contact, unless you can do it meekly, then immediately look away and pretend to be fascinated by the floor.
Keep the baseboards spotless (God sees dust, you know).
Hold a baby, bonus points if you can juggle two, one on each hip, because nothing says “godly woman” like chronic back pain and emotional suppression.
Worship your father, adore the cult leader, and for the love of all that’s holy, keep those opinions deep, deep inside.
Be meek. Be mild. Be as natural as the dirt you’re apparently equal to.
Cover your knees (scandalous little joints), wear your skirts flirty but wholesome, and for heaven’s sake, don’t pull at your tank top, the boys might spontaneously combust.
Because, of course, their erections are your problem. Their purity? Also your responsibility.
Laugh at their jokes, but not too loud.
Be available, but not obvious.
Be chosen, but don’t you dare do the choosing.
When you’re finally picked ~ like produce at a farmers’ market, thank God above that you’re not an old spinster at twenty-one.
Amen.
So at twenty-six, freshly booted into the “real” (read: worldly and sinful) world, how in the ever-loving hell was I supposed to start choosing myself, when I’d never actually made a choice in my entire life?
It’s the question so many of us, the ones who’ve been “out” for fucking years, still whisper to ourselves in the dark.
Because the act of choosing yourself, of unlearning obedience, isn’t romantic or empowering at first.
It’s terrifying.
It’s messy.
And it’s the kind of work no one claps for.
A survivor told me recently, “I don’t even know what you mean when you say choose you.”
And honestly? Fair.
How do you explain self-trust to someone who’s only ever been taught to defer, submit, and smile pretty?
Choosing yourself isn’t about lighting a candle, journaling, or pretending you’re on a self-help Instagram feed.
No, it’s standing in front of the mirror and realizing that everything you thought you were, every “quirk,” every “talent,” every damn thing you call you, was meticulously assembled by the very hands that abused you.
Then… deciding, with zero fanfare, to bulldoze it all anyway, because that’s where authenticity emerges from.
Allow me to tell you that stepping into authenticity after living a life carefully curated by men?
Yeah… it’s uncharted territory.
And yes, it comes with nervous-shit-level anxiety.
WHAT IF I DON’T RECOGNIZE OR LOVE WHO I REALLY AM?!
Here’s the kicker: that panic? Totally unfounded.
You’re not failing yourself, you’re finally waking up from a decades-long performance you didn’t audition for.
The truth is, you don’t recognize the lie you’ve been shoved into.
You’ve just been expertly trained to recognize and adore the damn facade.
And now… surprise! It’s time to figure out what’s actually behind the curtain.
Let me put it this way: the first time I masturbated, I was twenty-six.
Twenty-six!
And it was awkward as hell. Weird is an understatement, and so unbelievably wrong that I nearly called the ER for a panic attack.
Because, my entire life, no one was allowed to touch my body, except for my husband, and that “hands off,” included me.
Me!
Can you imagine? Your own hands are apparently criminal evidence.
Mind. Completely. Fucked.
But here’s the kicker: once I finally went for it, that one tiny rebellion flipped a switch.
Suddenly, my eyes were open.
My body was awake.
And my soul was like… cue Aladdin and Jasmine soaring through the sky.
Welcome to a whole new world, honey, and it only took twenty-six years to get the memo!
We were the “good girls.”
The rule-followers.
The sit-still-and-smile types.
The ones who cooked, cleaned, and blushed at the mere sight of an Adam’s apple.
We were the silent ones.
The knee-covered Handmaids.
The long-haired, do-good creeps.
Our bodies? Oh, just tools for redemption.
We traipsed behind our husbands like tiny shadows and served supper by 5:00 pm on the dot, because punctuality and well-fed male bellies is our one-way ticket to the promised land.
So yeah… that little, nagging itch that doesn’t go away?
That’s called choice.
Wild concept, right? How do you even do it?!
Here’s my two cents: you break the rules.
You rebel.
You say “BYE, FELICIA” to everything and everyone who thinks they get a vote in your life.
You kiss the old scripts, the do’s and don’ts, and the mansplained “guidance” goodbye, and you never look back.
You become the nightmare of everyone who ever had a hand in assembling the obedient little robot you’ve been.
You say, “screw your system,” and then you actually do it.
You do the things that make the Puritan ghost in your head shriek,
“OH MY GOD, I AM SINNING, THIS IS WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!!!”
…. and all you’ve done is, you know, show your knees or feel a breeze on your lower back.
God, the first time I felt air hit my skin as my shirt rode up while bending over?
I gasped.
I knew, in that holy, bone-deep way, that I had singlehandedly sent every man within a five-mile radius straight to hell.
Absolute whore, right? Someone call the elders!
Talking to another survivor the other day, we both sighed and said:
“I hate that I’ve been trained to automatically question my own reality, to double- and triple-check that I didn’t do anything wrong, even when I know I didn’t , because keeping other people comfortable and happy always comes before, you know, existing for myself.”
Ahhh… trauma. That charming little life-long roommate that crashes every victory party.
Choosing yourself isn’t about lighting a candle, journaling, or pretending you’re on a self-help Instagram feed.
So again: Break. The. Rules.
Have. Fun.
Be a Cleopatra. Be a whore. Orgasm thirteen times in one night just because you can. Explore every inch of your own damn body and call it science.
Say “brain fart” without apologizing.
Swear like a sailor.
Don’t you dare lower your voice for a man who couldn’t handle your volume anyway.
Wear the pants that hug your glorious ass.
Wear the skirt that makes it sway.
Let your cleavage have its own fan club.
Listen to rap. Rap it loud. Rap it badly. Bonus points if it makes a deacon uncomfortable.
Be unhinged.
Be a psycho.
Fuck being calm.
Be the chaos they tried to pray out of you.
AND when men start their usual Olympics ~ flip it back.
Confuse them. Outsmart them.
Mark your territory with eyeliner, confidence, and a smirk that says, “Try me.”
Do not back down. Ever again.
So here’s the memo nobody handed you, ladies:
You are not a project.
You are not a Handmaid.
You are not a cautionary tale.
You are a fully chaotic, gloriously uncooperative human being who gets to choose herself, every messy, terrifying, orgasmic, swear-word-laden, “holy shit am I really doing this?!” step of the way.
Choice isn’t polite.
Choice isn’t demure.
Choice isn’t sitting there nodding while the patriarchy lectures you about your knees, your voice, or your orgasms.
Choice is bending the rules.
Choice is letting your back breathe and showing your knees.
Choice is laughing too loud and swearing too much (well, according to weak men).
Choice is making all the people who tried to “train” you gasp in horror.
It is what YOU want it to be.
The world may have built you to obey.
BUT congratulations, you have officially upgraded to chaos.
Laugh when you want.
Cry when you want.
Gasp at your own body when it decides to feel pleasure.
Stand up, and not fucking meekly, flip off the nonsense, and raise hell with a smirk.
Risk it all.
Never surrender.
Feel it all.
Love hard.
Make mistakes.
Get drunk at 2:00 a.m. ~ because if the world’s going to judge you, might as well do it spectacularly.
Stop hiding yourself like you’re some embarrassing antique.
Hike that skirt up.
Enjoy sundress sex on a European patio (yes, I may or may not have done that, and yes, it was glorious).
Wear the pants.
Be the breadwinner.
Be the “woman burned at the stake,” in someone’s narrative.
Climb the career ladder.
Break glass ceilings, making the patriarchy choke on its own rules while you rise
Eat whatever the hell you want ~ dessert for breakfast? Sure. Taco at midnight? Go for it.
Dance like your weirdness is an art form, because guess what? It is.
Chop your hair. Dye it neon. Wear glitter in your armpits if that’s your vibe.
Be so unapologetically weird that the right people can’t help but flock to you.
Scream when you need to.
Laugh at the absurdity.
Find your voice.
And here’s the best part, actually listen to it.
For once, stop letting everyone else’s rules, fears, and ejaculations of control dictate how you exist.
Welcome to the REAL.
Welcome to your revolution.
Welcome to choosing you.
And yes, it’s entirely, unapologetically, gloriously yours.
BREAK THOSE RULES!! Good girls never wrote history.
And make sure your iron levels are not low. 😉