Trading Autonomy for Aprons

Women's Rights at a Crossroads

Photo by Marisa Howenstine on Unsplash

The air pressed down, thick with the weight of late summer, unmoving, suffocating. Cicadas shrieked from the trees, their relentless hum pulsing in waves, rising and falling like distant sirens. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower sputtered to life, its low, mechanical growl blending with the occasional bursts of a child's laughter, soft at first, then engulfed by the heat.

I sat on the porch, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles around the rim of a sweating glass of iced tea, watching my granddaughter in the yard. She was barefoot, her sundress lifting in the breeze, wild curls bouncing with each step. She moved with the kind of effortless joy that only children possess, pausing to examine the smallest details—a ladybug creeping across a blade of grass, a dandelion bending under its own weight—before spinning away, arms outstretched, weightless.

For a moment, I let myself believe she could fly.

But the thought settled in before I could push it away.

Where will she land?

I had fought for my place. I bravely entered unwelcome rooms and took a seat regardless. I built a career in a field dominated by men—educational administration—where leadership meetings were filled with deep voices and firm handshakes, where I was often the only woman in the room. I earned my degrees, including a doctorate, with professors telling me on elevators that women didn’t belong in their classrooms. Love notes stuffed in my books by anonymous admirers, scrawled in hurried, slanted handwriting—"my little cabbagehead"—tucked between the pages like pressed flowers, fragile and full of possibility. A nickname meant to shrink me, to make me small—to remind me that no matter how many degrees I earned or boardrooms I commanded, I would always be something delicate. Someone they were empowered to dismiss. They had the strength to ignore me as a person and turn me into an object. But in that dismissiveness, they overlooked the resilience I cultivated, the layers of experience that shaped me into someone far more formidable than their petty jabs suggested. Each love note, though intended to belittle, became a reminder of my tenacity, a testament to my journey of transforming fragility into strength.

I used to smile when I found them. I used to believe that affection and diminishment could coexist harmoniously. I believed that I could simultaneously receive respect and adoration. I had the ability to create a vast empire while still maintaining a humble demeanor.

But love should not come with the expectation of shrinking. And I was never meant to be small. I endured lectures where people smirked at my questions and dismissed my ambition as adorable but unnecessary. I watched my male colleagues rise faster, promoted not for their brilliance but for their familiarity—their ease, their belonging.

And still, I fought for my place. I took the seat they didn’t offer. I stayed in rooms where I was unwelcome. I refused to apologize for my presence.

I made this decision because I understood what was at stake.

I built a career, earned my degrees, and made choices that had once been impossible for women like me.

But will my granddaughter get the same chance?

Or will she grow up in a world that tells her the fight was never worth it to begin with? I had the right to control my body, my education, and my future. I had those opportunities.

But will she?

Will she have the same freedom over her own body, or will someone else decide for her? Will she walk into a doctor’s office without hesitation, or will she learn to fear the quiet disapproval behind a clipboard? Will the world continue to tell her that she can be anything, or will it constantly remind her to minimize herself?

The answer is already unfolding.

In just the past few months, women’s rights have come under attack in ways that feel less like policy shifts and more like a deliberate attempt to turn back time. Reproductive rights are being gutted at a speed we’ve never seen before. While no federal abortion ban has passed yet, lawmakers are drafting legislation that would criminalize abortion nationwide, even in states where it remains legal. Mifepristone, the most commonly used abortion pill, is under legal attack despite being FDA-approved for over 20 years. Republican-led states are pushing laws that would punish women for crossing state lines to seek care, tracking their menstrual cycles as if their bodies were government property.

Even birth control is no longer safe. Justice Clarence Thomas has already called for the Supreme Court to reconsider rulings that protect contraception access, and some states are introducing bills that would allow pharmacies to refuse prescriptions on "moral grounds." The Alabama Supreme Court has ruled that frozen embryos are legally considered "children," causing a significant impact on the IVF industry and increasing the legal risk associated with performing fertility treatments for doctors. If embryos are granted full personhood rights, emergency contraception and IUDs could be next in line to be banned.

The assault doesn’t stop at healthcare. Federal paid family leave protections are being gutted, forcing millions of women to choose between financial stability and time with their newborns. Equal pay protections are being blocked. Childcare funding has been slashed, making it even harder for working mothers to stay in the workforce. Title IX protections against sexual harassment and assault have been reversed, making it easier for schools to ignore cases of abuse.

History itself is being rewritten. Public universities in multiple states are removing women's studies and gender equality courses, dismissing them as "woke indoctrination." Funding for domestic violence crisis centers is being cut. Women who fought to build something for themselves—something lasting, something free—are watching that foundation crumble.

And my granddaughter, twirling barefoot in the grass, does not know any of it.

She does not know that in rooms filled with men who will never bear the consequences, decisions are being made about her body, her future, and her place in the world. She is unaware that the loss of rights can occur more quickly than their acquisition. She is unaware that the finish line is constantly edging closer.

I want to hold onto this moment. Bottle it up. Keep it safe from the world she will inherit.

But I can’t.

So instead, I grip the arms of my chair, my knuckles whitening against the wood, and remind myself:

We are not powerless.

But that’s exactly what they want us to believe.

The pattern is unmistakable: this isn’t about "morality" or "protecting life." It’s about control. Women are being stripped of bodily autonomy, economic security, legal protections, and even historical representation. This is a deliberate, strategic effort to push women back into submission, dependence, and silence. And if we don’t fight back now, the next generation will wake up in a world where our rights are a distant memory.

However, a distinct narrative is emerging amidst this unraveling.

A story where women are not being stripped of their autonomy but are willingly handing it over. The traditional wife movement is rapidly expanding, encapsulating the essence of homegrown simplicity and sunlit perfection. The Tradwife movement is characterized by flour-dusted hands, neatly braided hair, and soft smiles over steaming loaves of sourdough. There is a promise of a life free from ambition, a return to purity—a world where women exist to nurture, to obey, and to belong to someone else.

At first glance, it looks like empowerment through choice. This represents a rejection of burnout culture and a rebellion against corporate greed. But beneath the soft focus and vintage aprons lies something much older, much darker. It is not a movement; it is a seduction. It is a subtle rewriting of history, persuading women that the freedoms we battled for were never truly worthwhile. That submission is not oppression, but peace. That dependency is not weakness, but grace. That we were never meant to carry the weight of our own lives.

And now, even Meghan Markle—the woman who built her name on independence—is curating a Netflix show celebrating homemaking. A woman who once stood as a symbol of breaking free from outdated traditions is now selling domesticity as an aesthetic, a lifestyle brand. But Meghan Markle can walk away. She has wealth, security, and options. Are the women buying into this movement? They are not just choosing homemaking. They are selecting a story that suggests they never had the freedom to make a choice.

The irony? The original queen of the domestic empire—Martha Stewart—was never a trad wife. She was a spurned, divorced single mother who turned homemaking into a business, not a submission. She didn’t make a home to serve a man. She built an empire so she never had to depend on one again. And now, the same women romanticizing this “simpler way of life” would like to fold her into their narrative of graceful, obedient femininity. But they forget—Martha was never soft. She was never docile. She was a shark.

That’s what they won’t tell you. The women who truly mastered homemaking weren’t the ones who surrendered to it. They were the ones who turned it into power.

So when I watch my granddaughter spin, her laughter carried by the breeze, I know this fight is not just about what they take from us. It is also about what we refuse to give.

Because power is never simply taken.

Occasionally, people give it away.

The dish was wrapped in linen and tied with a bow. The dish was served warm on a floral china plate. The dish was presented in a carefully curated Instagram reel.

And if we don’t pay attention, we might wake up in a world where the next generation doesn’t even realize what they’ve lost.