Feminist dread—what it is, how I cope

Trigger warning: sexual violence.

I’ve had existential dread. I know existential dread. But this feels different.

The specific flavor of dread I have been experiencing the past few months is what I have decided to call feminist dread.

I had my feminist awakening in my late teens and early 20s as I was unpacking the belief systems I had internalized in my conservative middle-class suburban upbringing. I didn’t want to be a housewife. I didn’t want to be a Christian. I didn’t want to have a life in which my greatest accomplishments were being attractive, making money, and making babies. I wanted to have a life that I was proud of—but I had no idea what that actually meant.

That was my first instance of feminist dread. More like an appetizer of what was to come. Fast forward about 8 years.

Since then, I have been assaulted more than a couple times. I have been in abusive relationships with manipulative men. I have been made to feel small and worthless and objectified. Those things I can handle. These things I can overcome. Women are waging invisible wars every single day and winning despite the odds. I am resilient—not because I want to be, but because I have to be.

However, it’s the scope of this blatant and disgusting violence that plagues me—truly, haunts me. There are women being exploited by billionaires—little girls being exploited by billionaires. There are executives, politicians, and moguls of all kinds preying upon women and femmes. And no one. fucking. cares.

No one. Fucking. Cares.

It’s almost like I had fallen asleep after my first feminist awakening. I did the work, I learned the things, I unpacked the belief systems. And then I kind of subconsciously retired from my feminist awareness. And then BOOM. I’m reminded that the world was made by men for men, and that as long as manmade systems persist and they are occupied by men and catered towards men, violence against women will persist as well.

I walk around the world now as if it were a ghost town. I see a woman and wonder if she’s okay, if anyone has hurt her, what invisible wars she is waging today, what she needs, what she wants. I feel like I have been jolted awake. I don’t want to be jolted awake again—I want to remain vigilant. But still, I must continue to find joy and purpose and meaning in this life, and the task feels impossible. How can violence and joy co-exist? How can I experience happiness while carrying this anxiety? To be honest with you, I have no actual clue. But, I have a few ideas of what to try and where I want to start.

I am only going to talk about my experience. I have no idea how anyone else copes with feminist dread—that is their journey and theirs alone.

1. Going back to basics

   Eating. Showering. Moving. Getting out of bed. Taking breaks. Drinking water. Breathing in. Breathing out. Setting boundaries, and not breaking them.

2. Getting angry

   I am fucking pissed. I. Am. Fucking. Pissed. I am not going to pretend like I’m not. I’m not going to water myself down. I am not going to be quiet or still or silent. I am going to make some noise. I am going to let this rage galvanize me into actionable changes in my own life that create safe spaces for the women I encounter and care for. If I can help women feel safe in my presence, I feel like I’ve done my part. If I can stand up for women whom I do not know and will never meet by speaking out against the things that threaten women all over the world, I feel like I’m acting in alignment with my values.

3. Building intergenerational community

   Something I realized when my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and began to unravel her life for me as she never had before, is that violence against women has always existed. My mother, grandmother, great grandmother, cousin, friend, neighbor, co-worker have likely all experienced sexual violence. I can never know the ins-and-outs of the violence that runs through my lineage, but I can remember the sobering words of my grandmother and look outwards at the women around me and beyond me. Remember: waging invisible wars. All of them.

4. Being disobedient

   I don’t want want to be obedient in a man-made world. Because if the world is man-made, that means the rules were created by men. If the rules were created by men, then that means we live in patriarchy, and patriarchy is inherently violent and oppressive towards women. Political violence is still violence. I don’t actually totally know what being disobedient will look like in my life. At the moment it is more of a consciousness that I carry within me—a willingness to interrogate everything that I have ever taken at face value as “the way things are”. But I am open to being actively disobedient as well. I will disobey anything that requires me to exploit myself or others or be complicit in the kind of gendered violence that is being perpetuated and ignored by our government. I’m jumping ship—I am my own government now.

5. Practicing self-compassion

   Sometimes I feel like a piece of shit for sitting at home and knitting my freaking sweater vest while women everywhere are being tortured and violated. It almost feels like intrusive thoughts—I see the images, I hear the screams. But I know that I have to do what I have to do in order to get through this moment and continue fighting for the things that I believe in. If that requires sleeping more than usual, taking a mental health day from work, being alone more than usual, or crying in the car to Adrianne Lenker—so be it. Now more than ever I have to give myself permission to grieve, feel, and heal. I am too soft for this cruel world, so I must create my own moments of softness to compensate and carry on.

One last thing before I end this rather somber coming-out-of-blog-retirement post—if you are a man, I urge you to take action. Call out your shitty male friends that objectify and belittle women. Educate yourself—read feminist books. And for the love of freaking god, do not harm women. Remember—your mother, grandmother, great grandmother, cousin, friend, neighbor, co-worker have likely all experienced sexual violence. A threat to women somewhere is a threat to women anywhere.

My favorite spaces in my 1900s schoolhouse attic apartment

I live in an attic apartment in a house built in the 1900s. It was originally a Swedish school, as some of the first settlers of the town I live in were Swedish. After the school closed, it was renovated into apartments in the 1970s. Legend has it, Ernest Hemingway stayed in the schoolhouse when visiting town years ago (this according to my elderly neighbors across the street). I like to think he stayed in the attic, but honestly, who knows. Sometimes when I hear weird sounds coming from the walls or footsteps in the hallway I ask, “Ernest, is that you?” Although if anyone is haunting the schoolhouse, it’s probably a little Swedish kid named Bjorn.

I am proud of my living situation even if it is a cheap rental, dusty, cracked, and falling apart at the seams. I love my home because it feels like me. My friends live downstairs. My neighbors are friendly. I can see the silhouette of pine-covered hills off in the distance from my window. There is a purple Victorian home on my street that hosts fiddle concerts on their porch in the summers. I feel safe and at peace here, and to me, that is a very rare, magical, and beautiful thing. I want to share some of my favorite spaces with you. Each of my favorite spaces is a little part of me.

1. My living room

   My living room is small. it consists of a navy blue velvet couch I got on Facebook marketplace, a rug, a small coffee table, and a bookshelf. I love this shelf. It is right in front of my baseboard heater (not touching, don’t worry Mom) so it warms the cat bed on the shelf. This makes for a very cozy cat nap spot for Midnight during the colder months. I have a stack of favorite books, a candle, and the decorative wheat I got when I lived in San Francisco. I had no idea back then that I’d eventually move to the breadbasket of the United States and the wheat would become more symbolic than decorative. I have several puzzles, most of which were gifted to me by my puzzle-obsessed mom. I have a thrifted piece of art next to the puzzles, and a basket with my knitting supplies next to that. I quite literally have all of my favorite things in this space. If I was a cat, I’d sleep here too.

2. The reading nook

Something felt missing when I moved into my apartment. So, I got a big comfy armchair from my neighbor and set it up in the corner. That was it—a reading nook. But really, it’s an all-purpose nook. I surf the internet. I take naps. I read, eat, knit, listen to music, daydream, et cetera. If you haven’t already, I highly recommend getting on the Big Comfy Chair Train. I also have a print above the chair by one of my favorite artists, Mary Finlayson aka Painted Mary.

3. My memory shelf

I have a circular shelf next to my reading nook that I dedicate to objects that bring back specific memories or are otherwise meaningful to me in some way. I have a postcard of San Francisco, given to me by my brother. I lived in San Francisco for about two and a half years, and it was a very formative and sacred time for me as I was growing into myself in my early twenties. I have palo santo which was gifted to me by the owner of a plant shop in San Francisco, as well as some Polaroids of my two cats, Midnight and Luna. Above that there is a card made by one of my very talented artist friends, and above that, there is a small book my mother gave me when I was going through a very difficult time a few years ago—You are Your Best Friend by Anisa Makhoul, another one of my favorite artists.

4. Plants, of course

Houseplants have brought me peace, joy, and happiness for years—hence the name of this blog. I have them all positioned by my windows so they can get a good dose of sunlight. I like having them in the kitchen so I can perform plant care while I cook. The cats have been attacking them a lot recently—more specifically, my kitten Luna has been attacking Mathilda the monstera and I really don’t appreciate it. But she is still looking majestic as ever despite the assaults. I am not a perfect plant parent and I don’t think I ever will be, but that is for another post.

5. My bathroom window

I’m not gonna pretend like I love my bathroom. It’s fine. It’s weird. But what else would you expect from an attic bathroom which was built in the 1900s and renovated in the 1970s. What I do love about it, however, is once again the windows that give my plants sunlight, as well as the mint green tile that covers the entire wall. It was one of those unique features of the apartment that I noticed upon touring it that gave it a kind of charm I couldn’t resist. The tiles are a pain in the ass to clean, but they’re cute so I put up with it.

6. My nightstand

I recently got a new lamp for my bedroom from Goodwill that has a texture on it that I can only describe as shell-like. It’s very 1970s—which is to say, it’s right up my alley. Along with my lamp, I have lotion, perfume, a journal I got in Portland, Oregon, and a small dish my mom gave me which holds several small items which have meaning to me. I have more decorative wheat on my nightstand in a pink vintage vase and an art print of intertwined hands above the nightstand. I also have several books on the bookshelf as well as bookends that are hand-me-downs from my late grandmother. I’m also pretty sure I have had this nightstand since I was a child. I’m almost positive about that one.

That’s really all I have to share about my little corner of the world in small-town Idaho. I live a really simple life, but I live a life with a lot of meaning and purpose. It’s a life I’m proud to live, even if I forget this from time to time. I don’t need anything fancy or flashy—I just want my favorite things, my cats, my plants, and a place that helps me feel at home within myself.

My November 2025 vision board

When I was a kid, I used to make collages and vision boards on a regular basis. It was my way of intentionally checking in with myself and asking, “What do I need right now? What do I want right now?” I feel like I’ve been in desperate need of check-ins with myself—I’ve been feeling disconnected from myself the past few months. Therefore, the vision board is back. Here’s what I need this month.

I need mugs of hot beverages—coffee, matcha, tea, hot chocolate, anything. It’s cold here in Idaho and it’s only going to get colder. I need bowls of warm, nourishing soup. I need cuddles with my two black cats Midnight and Luna. I need nature walks and drives through the vibrant fall foliage which has taken northern Idaho by storm this past month. I need books to curl up with when the rain (and soon, snow) comes pouring down. I need sweaters and sweater vests and loafers and hats. I need the soft glow of candlelight as I drink my morning coffee, or as I sip an evening glass of wine. Lastly, I added something that has been a bit of a mantra for me for quite some time:

“Good things happen. Love is real. We will be okay.”

Using creativity to process emotions, thoughts, and difficult-to-articulate unmet needs is something I turn to when I feel disconnected from myself. Whether that be through a collage, playlist, song, poem, or essay just depends on my mood. Thanks for peering into the inside of my brain and I encourage you to do the same. You never know what you’re gonna find in there.

{I made this collage using Shuffles by Pinterest but you could easily use Adobe Photoshop or Canva to do this project as well}.

In my perfectionist era

I thought it would be fitting for my first post to discuss something that I’m dying to discuss—cultural narratives around perfectionism. I recently started listening to the audiobook of The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control by Katherine Morgan Schafler and it has made me think about perfectionism in a way I have never thought of it before.

I, like many people I know, identify as a perfectionist. I am a paper-readjuster, a compulsive counter cleaner, a re-reader of e-mails so I do not miss all the details. I cannot help it—I’ve been like this since I was a kid and was organizing my school clothes by color in my closet. I find peace in creating order out of disorder and balance out of chaos. But for the longest time, I beat myself up for my high standards—Why am I so obsessive about some things? Why can’t I be messier? Why can’t I care less? I thought being a perfectionist was what was causing all of my depression and self-criticism, but really, I think it was my inability to come to terms with myself and accept myself for who I am.

The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control talks about adaptive perfectionism and maladaptive perfectionism—the former being perfectionistic tendencies which benefit you and the latter being perfectionistic tendencies which harm you. I never thought about all the benefits my perfectionism might give me—high standards, ambition, drive, conscientousness, and punctuality—I only thought about all of the ways in which it was ruining my life. I thought the problem was me, but it was the way I was viewing myself. There is a cultural narrative that being a perfectionist is unhealthy, particularly for women. Men who are good at things are lauded as being great in their field, an upstanding guy, etc. For women, with the exception of the domestic sphere, being a perfectionist is seen as unhealthy and imbalanced. Why is that? Because women being really good at things and having ambitions and standards and drive is threatening. Ambition and drive do not have to be purely capitalistic pursuits—you can strive for improvement in nearly any area of your life. Yet all kinds of ambition in women are threatening because ambition goes hand-in-hand with self-empowerment, and women’s empowerment is the ultimate threat to patriarchy. We’re told to do self-care, rest more, do less—all of which I support wholeheartedly. These can certainly be empowering in their own way. But what about that fire inside of women that pushes them to excel—are we to squash that entirely in service of being “healthier” and more “balanced”? Or are we going to honor the parts of ourselves that yearn for more and hold space for them?

I am personally not in alignment with corporate feminism and don’t believe empowerment and capitalism are aligned either. But having goals, dreams, and visions of what we want our lives to ideally be like should not be treated as a crime. Instead of beating ourselves up for being perfectionists, we need to be gentler with ourselves and ensure that our perfectionism is serving us, not disserving us. It is also worth examining whether this perfectionism is really serving us or serving capitalism. Sometimes it does serve both, for example in the case of someone who gets a lot of meaning and satisfaction from their job. In other cases, the perfectionism can be completely maladaptive for us, but beneficial to those who derive profit from it. Wanting to do and be more is not inherently a bad thing—it’s the cultural narrative about it. The problem is not having high standards—it’s lack of self-compassion.

In the book, Schafler says ““You don’t heal by changing who you are; you heal by learning how to be yourself in the world.” That really stuck with me.

So, yeah, I am a perfectionist :) But I am a perfectionist about the things that matter to me, align with my values, and bring me joy in this world. And I am tired of apologizing for caring so much—because I care so much. Limiting my heart feels like a betrayal to myself. Let that thing love what it loves and feel what it feels and shoot for the fucking stars.

The latest thing I’ve enjoyed being a perfectionist about is my morning coffee—I need just the right roast, milk-to-coffee ratio, and amount of cinnamon. I’ll nail it someday.