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I am a feminist. I believe in equity. In justice. In dismantling systems built on the bones of the oppressed.
And I am afraid of men.

There it is. Raw. Undeniable.

I carry this fear not because I want to, but because I was taught to. Because I’ve lived too many moments where my safety, my voice, my being were compromised at the hands of men. Not all men—but enough. Enough that my body remembers even when my mind wants to forgive.

So, here’s the razor’s edge I walk every day:

How do I hold this fear and not let it turn to hatred? How do I rage against patriarchy without dehumanizing the men caught in its grip?

Because misandry—hatred of men—is seductive. It feels like armor, like justice. But it’s not.
Misandry collapses individuals into a faceless mass, the same way patriarchy collapses women into objects, into roles, into silence.
And I will not become what I fight.

Fear is not hatred.

Fear is survival. It’s my body’s way of saying, Be ready. It’s a response to a world where men hold disproportionate power, where that power has been wielded recklessly, violently. It’s trauma’s echo.

But hatred? That’s a choice. That’s a wall I could build to keep me safe—but also keep me small. And I didn’t come here to stay small.
Neither did you.

As feminists, we don’t fight for a seat at the table. We fight to rebuild the damn table—for everyone. Including the men who’ve been twisted by the same systems that harm us. Patriarchy doesn’t just oppress women; it severs men from their softness, their tears, their humanity.

But that doesn’t mean I owe men my trust. Trust is earned. It means I owe myself the space to feel my fear without letting it calcify into bitterness.

I interrogate every moment:
Is this fear speaking, or is this judgment? Is this my body remembering, or is this man standing before me truly unsafe?

This is the work. This is the reclamation.

Rage at systems, not souls.

Fear what power has done, not who holds it.
Wield your fire with precision, not blind fury.

We can be afraid. We can hold boundaries made of steel. And we can still refuse to let our fear become hate.

This is the path of the feminist. This is the reclamation of our fire.

And fire, my loves, doesn’t just destroy. It illuminates.