The Good Woman Has to Die

On Shedding Expectations and Reclaiming Power

The ideal woman has to die so that the real one can rise. This piece is about shedding the roles we were taught to play and reclaiming the space we were born to take up.

The Good Woman

For years, I tried to be her.

The quiet one. The helper. The one who never asked for too much, never raised her voice, never took up too much space. I was the well-behaved child who didn’t cry. The dutiful daughter who gave up play to help run the family business. The model employee who stayed late and asked for nothing, except maybe for a 3% raise that couldn’t keep up with 8% inflation.

I folded myself into the shapes they needed. Quiet. Self-effacing. Endlessly accommodating. I learned to impress without intimidating, to stay competent but unthreatening, especially to men who couldn’t lead but still took up more space in meetings. I was taught to swallow my justified pride without bruising any of their gigantic egos.

The World Made Me Small

This idea of goodness demanded I disappear.

I gave without asking for much in return, and I was told it was strength. I let them win. I called it kindness when I dimmed my light to make them more comfortable. I even told myself it was patience when I accepted their scraps—of time, attention, affection—while I moved mountains for them.

I was applauded for being the kind of person who stayed. Who smiled when tired. Who apologized just for existing.

But deep down, I was suffocating in a story I didn’t write.

Let Her Die

At some point, I saw the truth: the “good woman” was never real.

She was a fiction. A composite of rules written by people who never had to follow them. An “extra” in someone else’s script. A background character in a story she was meant to write. Built to serve, not to live.

And to reclaim my life, she has to die.

What Rises in Her Place

Like a phoenix rising from ashes, I am not rebuilding her. Rather, I’m becoming someone entirely new.

I choose to live fully now. I walk into rooms with my soul intact. I no longer erase myself to soothe someone else’s insecurity. I speak clearly. I lead boldly. I stay soft when I want, sharp when I need. I am not here to please.

I am here to create. To challenge. To expand.

Too Much, Finally

I want to be the kind of woman who is not earned—but encountered.

Someone whose presence makes people pause. Not because she’s loud, but because she’s whole. Undiluted. Undeniably powerful. A woman who is too much—by choice. I’ve spent too long being told I wasn’t enough.

There is no glory in shrinking.

No peace in pretending.

No prize for hiding.

And no one worth keeping who asks me to be less than myself.

I Am Not Good

Not in the way they define it.

I am not a “good woman.”

I am a real one.