Femininity was modeled beautifully to me when I was growing up. I saw women who were gentle, kind, capable, and full of warmth. Yet at the same time, I also saw how many men treated women as if they were objects, servants, or extensions of their own needs. I watched women being controlled, dismissed, or treated like they were only there to please.
Somewhere inside, I made a silent vow: I will never be that woman.
As a teenager, I loved feminine clothing, but also hid under baggy clothes to not be noticed. I did not want to be seen. I did not want to be taken advantage of.
Then came the moment at age nineteen that changed everything. I was raped.
That single event planted seeds of hatred toward men and a deep rejection of my own femininity. My softness did not feel safe. My beauty did not feel safe. My womanhood did not feel safe.
So I made a decision. I will be strong. I will be independent. I will never be controlled.
When I showed interest in politics, I heard, “This is not for women. Learn to cook, sew, clean, and stay within your lane.” That pushed me further toward independence.
I poured myself into education, earned a master’s degree in architecture, worked as an architectural designer, invested in real estate, and provided for myself.
I fixed things. Used power tools. Rented properties. Handled everything alone.
My dad taught me to be capable and strong. He built our house, invented things, and showed me that a woman can learn to do anything a man can do. I am grateful for that.
But there was a cost. In protecting myself from the kind of men I feared, I also rejected the very men who could have loved me. I rejected masculine leadership, masculine presence, masculine pursuit.
My desire for marriage was strong, but my energy pushed men away. I hated men, yet longed for one good man. It created a painful contradiction inside of me.
In my late thirties and early forties, something softened. God began calling me back to the feminine heart He created in me. Not the weak version. Not the controlled version. Not the abused version. But the healed version. The queen version. The version that carries warmth, wisdom, peace, connection, and presence.
When I got married, I had to learn what it meant to trust again. To allow my husband to lead. To release control. To let him carry responsibility. To stop being the woman who does everything because she has always needed to.
It has been beautiful and challenging. It has been healing. And it continues.
My independence was powerful, but my femininity became even more powerful once it was healed.
Today, I see that true femininity is not weakness. It is strength with softness. It is wisdom with peace. It is influence without force. It is the glow that comes from a healed heart, not a hardened one.
And the truth is this: You can desire love and still be afraid of it. You can long for a husband and still reject men because of old wounds. You can crave connection and still push it away.
Healing femininity is a journey.
For me, it has been worth every step.
What about you? Have you ever found yourself rejecting part of your femininity because of pain? I would love to hear your story.