“Sorry, that was not very ‘lady-like’ of me”
I’ve always despised the way I was conditioned to be passive, to avoid the label of “drama queen.” When men express anger — controlled and measured — it’s seen as a strength, a sign of power. But when a woman dares to display the same level of contained rage, she is often dismissed as irrational, emotional, or even psychotic. The dichotomy is glaring, and yet, it’s ingrained in how society frames female anger as something to be minimized, diluted, or ignored.
In an almost laughable irony, a quick search for “female rage” online presents the question: “How to explain female rage to a man?” The phrasing alone reveals a deep societal bias — the need to translate a woman’s anger into something digestible or palatable for men, as though it were an exotic language or incomprehensible concept. I’ve never engaged in debates with men over this because, honestly, I’ve seen no point. How can I explain something that many aren’t ready to accept or understand?
Female rage has often been reduced, particularly in film, to a mere shadow of its reality. Consider the portrayal of women’s anger in cinema: often softened, diluted into palatable scenes of single tears rolling down cheeks or voices raised just slightly above the norm. Films like Gone Girl challenge this narrative. Amy Dunne’s calculated rage is terrifying — there’s nothing subtle or quietly contained about it. She is unapologetically fierce, embodying rage that both manipulates and frightens. Then there’s Thelma & Louise, a classic where female rage is not just cathartic but revolutionary, breaking through the constraints society places on women. Yet, even these portrayals are exceptions rather than the rule, and they are often framed as aberrations or extreme cases, reinforcing the idea that such rage is abnormal or excessive.
In reality, female anger should not merely be acknowledged for its power but for its capacity to unsettle, even to terrify. Women are taught to internalize their rage, to swallow injustices until the anger simmers so deeply that it erupts, not in tears, but in a wave that overwhelms and consumes. And yet, society remains uncomfortable with the idea of female anger being anything more than frustration or irritation. They fear acknowledging the depth of our rage because doing so would mean confronting the many injustices that have been inflicted upon women for centuries.
I think back on the countless moments of rage I’ve felt over the years, and I realise that if it weren’t for societal standards and the laws against violence, I wouldn’t have hesitated to spill blood. The anger that simmers beneath the surface, born from years of being told to smile by strangers, particularly men, or the time a grown man dared to slap me on the ass while I was still in my school uniform — those moments ignite a fury that’s hard to describe.
And then there were the catcalls. The day a group of men jeered at me and my friend, high school uniforms clinging to us like reminders of our youth, as they demanded we make out for their amusement. The expectation, of course, is that we should just brush it off. This is something women endure — an unfortunate reality we are meant to swallow with grace. But there’s no grace in being reduced to an object, in having your autonomy disregarded for the fleeting entertainment of others. Society’s solution is simple: ignore it. Absorb the humiliation and move on.
In a world without consequences, I should have the same freedom to fight back without facing backlash. After all, if someone can dish it out, they should be prepared to take it. The anger I’ve kept bottled up for so long would manifest in ways that are far from civilized — strangling someone with their own entrails, making them swallow shards of glass. But that, of course, isn’t deemed “socially acceptable,” unlike catcalling underage girls or violating their space. So I guess that means I should be the one to apologise, right?
Female rage, when finally unbridled, is not just powerful — it’s frightening, and it should be. It is the force of years of silent endurance, of having our voices muted or mocked. It is not a single, tear-streaked moment of frustration; it is a storm. Think of A Woman Under the Influence, where Gena Rowlands’ character teeters on the brink of madness, her rage barely contained. It’s a visceral, unsettling portrayal of a woman pushed to her limits. This is the kind of rage that breaks through societal expectations, one that shakes the very foundation of those who witness it.
This isn’t about demonizing men or pitting genders against each other. It’s about recognizing that female anger is as valid and as complex as any other form of rage — and perhaps even more so because it has been suppressed for so long. When we confront female rage, we are not just facing a woman’s emotions, but the centuries of societal repression that has held it back.
Female rage is, and should be, both powerful and terrifying. Not because it seeks destruction, but because it refuses to be silenced any longer.
