Is it really possible for a woman to “win” by playing by the rules of patriarchy, or does the game itself guarantee a loss? Andrea Dworkin, the radical feminist whose book “Right-Wing Women” just hit its 40th anniversary, had a bracing answer: adaptation under patriarchy doesn’t ennoble—it wounds. Dworkin argued that the “sexual, sociological, and spiritual adaptation” required of conservative women is “in fact, the maiming of all moral capacity” (Washington Post). Her words, written decades ago, feel eerily current as the tradwife movement surges on Instagram and TikTok, prettifying domesticity and fueling a new wave of culture wars.
Today’s tradwife icons—think Peachy Keenan, Nara Smith, and Hannah Neeleman—aren’t just baking bread in spotless kitchens. They’re racking up millions of views and followers, transforming homemaking into both a brand and a battleground. Keenan, in her book “Domestic Extremist,” takes things further, declaring, “If the history books told the truth, feminism would beat out Mao, Stalin, and Hitler as the most successful genocider.” Her message is clear: women should “be fruitful and multiply,” leaving breadwinning to men and finding happiness in obedience and sacrifice (Law & Liberty).
But Dworkin saw something more complicated beneath the surface. She believed that right-wing women’s rage is real—but it’s misdirected. Instead of challenging the men who benefit from their submission, Dworkin argued, these women “cling to irrational hatreds… so that they will not murder their fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, lovers.” That anger, she wrote, is redirected at scapegoats: once lesbians, now trans women, and always feminists. The tradwife’s public performance, Dworkin noted with prescience, “prettifies” the very institutions that confine her, offering “happy visions of happy women, caged, domesticated or wanton, numb to rape, numb to being bought and sold.”
The tradwife trend is more than an aesthetic—it’s a political project. On social media, influencers like Nara Smith and Hannah Neeleman present domestic life as idyllic, “with pristine attire, fresh manicured nails, and full face of makeup—an image that stands in stark contrast to the messy, overwhelmed reality many associate with motherhood” (Media Diversity Institute). Critics warn that this romanticization “reinforces harmful gender stereotypes, undermines gender equality and promotes unhealthy relationships with power imbalances,” as Fiona O’Malley of Turn2Me puts it. Yet, for some, the tradwife identity feels like a rebellion against the burnout of “girl boss” culture and the pressures of modern work.
There’s a twist, though: many tradwife influencers are, paradoxically, earning significant income and social capital by selling the very lifestyle that claims to reject public ambition (Medium). This contradiction hasn’t gone unnoticed by Gen Z women, who point out that “these women are entrepreneurs selling a lifestyle they aren’t 100% living,” as one BuzzFeed contributor put it (BuzzFeed). For many, the tradwife fantasy is less about submission and more about the search for security, simplicity, or a sense of control in an unstable world.
Dworkin’s critique didn’t stop at conservative women. She was deeply skeptical of reproductive technologies, fearing that artificial wombs and IVF could render women obsolete, turning them into mere “incubators of babies.” Her concerns echo in today’s feminist debates about technologies like ectogenesis. While thinkers like Shulamith Firestone once saw artificial wombs as a ticket to liberation, others warn that such advances risk “devaluing the role and place of women in pregnancy” and “detaching the mother from the vital, nurturing relationship that is integral to the child’s lifelong development” (Nursing Clio). Feminist philosophers remain divided: are these technologies empowering tools, or just new ways for patriarchal systems to control women’s bodies (PMC)?
Yet, Dworkin’s most radical insight may be her call for solidarity. She saw that feminists and conservative women share a deep awareness of living in a world defined by sex hierarchy and exploitation. The difference, she argued, is not in their diagnosis, but in their response: one side accepts the status quo, the other fights to change it. Dworkin’s hope—still electrifying today—was that “the common struggle of all women… has the power to transform women who are enemies against one another into allies fighting for individual and collective survival that is not based on self-loathing, fear, and humiliation but instead on self-determination, dignity, and authentic integrity.”
As the tradwife trend continues to spark debate, Dworkin’s warnings and compassion remind us that the real question isn’t whether women should work or stay home, but why the rules are still written to keep them choosing between two versions of constraint.
