01/11/2026
If I wanted to control women, I would keep them tired. Exhaustion is a powerful leash.
I would make sure they carry the weight of homes, children, emotions, healing, and harmony, then call it “natural.”
I would ensure rest feels earned, rare, and riddled with guilt. A rested woman is dangerous. A nourished woman remembers who she is.
I would fracture them from one another.
I would teach them to compete for safety, for love, for approval.
I would whisper that other women are threats instead of mirrors.
I would pit mother against daughter, maiden against crone, single against married, working against staying home. Unity is a wildfire. Division is a cage that polices itself.
If I wanted to control women, I would steal their stories. I would erase their lineages.
I would burn their healers and call them witches.
I would rewrite history until women appear as footnotes, helpers, muses, never architects.
I would make them believe they came late to power, instead of remembering they were power long before thrones and borders existed.
I would sanctify suffering. I would glorify self sacrifice. I would tell them love means endurance.
I would dress control up as protection, possession as devotion, jealousy as passion. I would make abuse confusing enough that it takes years to name.
If I wanted to control women, I would teach girls to shrink early. I would comment on their bodies before they understand them.
I would sexualize them young, then punish them for being sexual.
I would reward silence and obedience, then ask why they never speak up.
And if I wanted to make all of this last, I would call it normal. I would call it tradition. I would call it God. I would call it biology. I would call it “just the way things are.”
But here is what those who try to control women forget. Women remember. We remember in our hips and our hands. We remember in the way we gather when one of us is hurting. We remember through recipes, songs,
-Ayana Madrone