top of page

by Wardah Malik for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics


Artwork by Logan Brewer
Artwork by Logan Brewer

As part of a college women’s studies seminar, a quote from The Robber Bride was frequently discussed. In it, Margaret Atwood addresses the concept of the male gaze, writing: “You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” For many of us in the class, the idea of constantly surveilling ourselves to meet men’s expectations was unsettling. It forced us to reflect on whether our desires were truly our own, or rather, an extension of what was expected from us by not only men, but culture and society more broadly. 


At that time, this desire was largely centred on the “girlboss” figure: A woman who doesn’t rely on men to achieve success, yet still seeks validation within their systems and rules—an obviously hollow symbol of empowerment built within a fundamentally unequal environment. 

Now, nearly a decade later and perhaps in recognition of its hollowness, the “girlboss” has disappeared. In its place, the “tradwife” has emerged as the new ideal for young women. 


The overwhelming message of the tradwife subculture is that “submissive wives live happy lives.” Free from the stress of corporate careers and the pressure to carve out spaces for themselves in conventional workplaces, these women showcase seemingly idyllic lifestyles on social media. On TikTok alone, videos promoting traditional values—featuring perfectly styled women tending to babies and making food from scratch—have accumulated over 300 million views. Their popularity has become a key debate point in the current culture war; many conservative commentators insist that women naturally want to be homemakers and that men pursue and choose women who embody traditional values such as motherhood and domestic housework. Unsurprisingly, most of these commentators are men claiming to speak for women, arguing that feminism has failed modern women. 

Via Europeana
Via Europeana

While the “girlboss” and “tradwife” archetypes appear to be opposites, the rapid cultural shifting between these two lifestyles highlights larger societal forces that push women toward certain narratives and choices beyond their direct control. For instance, most millennial women accepted the “girlboss” figure and strove for financial independence as a strategic escape from the trauma of the financial crisis they witnessed in their youth. Similarly, the rise of the tradwife movement can be viewed as a response to escape the engine of late-stage capitalism, exploitative corporate jobs, and contemporary economic instability, marked by high inflation and widespread unemployment. Ultimately, it is no coincidence that these lifestyle ideals, as promoted through cultural conversations and media, align with larger economic shifts, quietly dictating how women navigate labor, autonomy, and security. 


To understand why young women are drawn to the tradwife movement, we have to look back at its predecessor: The suburban housewife. Today’s trend conveniently ignores the realities of that role—the social isolation, complete financial dependence, and systemic domestic abuse and vulnerability—to focus entirely on what it symbolizes: The pure luxury of not working. Online, this fantasy manifests as total scheduling freedom, flawless homes, and nourishing meals. But this domestic bliss is actually a business, and top influencers earn millions selling it. By aggressively commercializing motherhood, they spark envy, shame, and sense of failure in everyday viewers who cannot match an unattainable, algorithms-driven ideal. 


“How do they have time to do all of that?” my friend asked me one day, expressing her own shame about not making homemade meals every night.


“You’re only seeing a portion of her day,” I responded. “The part she uses to make money—this is her job.”


Via the New York Public Library
Via the New York Public Library

That is the crucial distinction. Despite praising the traditional housewife, the modern, online tradwife is financially independent. She enjoys the privilege of writing a new narrative that affords her personal wealth, all while upholding traditional, conservative gender norms and causing others to feel insufficient. This contradiction is exactly what keeps the content engaging and profitable.


 “Domesticity here becomes a consumable product, which is circulated and repackaged in ways that ultimately feed the same conditions of neoliberal capital accumulation the [tradwife] movement claims in many ways to reject,” Imogen Richards, a criminologist at Deakin University, writes. In order to sell that product, the online tradwife relies on a curated, aesthetic performance of domesticity that appeals to a wide range of young women. However, while the content is popular, it’s not relatable, and not everyone has the privilege to perform this version of romanticized domestic labour. In fact, in a recent article for The Atlantic, writer Faith Hill outlines a “precarity-to-tradwife pipeline” that proves many stay-at-home moms have become so out of financial necessity, limited social support services, and the soaring cost of childcare in America. 


Beyond the online career tradwives and low-income mothers, a 2025 poll found that young women are drawn to tradwife content not for the male-breadwinner female-caregiver model, but for the aesthetic of simplicity, leisure, and an escape from increasingly demanding yet unstable work. In other words, the tradwife figure is desirable or enviable because of her autonomy and relationship to labour: She has the freedom to choose her own work-life balance and has escaped the “ideal worker” mould. This also means that enjoying tradwife content or wanting a balanced family life does not necessarily translate to the adoption of conservative values or anti-feminist worldviews. Instead, it signals widespread frustration with the current job market and the conditions that have forced so many women to tolerate intense burnout and economic stress. 


Although some version of the tradwife figure is ever-present in cultural discourse, the current online trend would arguably not exist if economic conditions were better. Because her popularity is a reflection of the current fractured cultural and political space, her mainstream staying power is weak. Maybe that’s for the best. As an aspirational figure, the movement’s attempt to frame “submission as an empowering personal choice,” alongside other conservative points, presents a dangerous path for young women. More than anything, the rise of the tradwife is a warning sign, revealing the desperation of a generation struggling to find stability in an increasingly tense economic climate.


Wardah Malik is a Toronto-based researcher, editor, and historian. She is the founder of Historyless Magazine, an independent publication covering global affairs and underreported political narratives. Her work spans media, human rights, and community-based research, including projects on press freedom, public health, and gender-based violence. Her research interests include governance, decolonizing language, and the preservation of underrepresented histories. Wardah holds an MPhil in World History from the University of Cambridge.


by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


Artwork by Logan Brewer
Artwork by Logan Brewer

Please note: this short story discusses cancer, climate catastrophe, mass death, and sexual assault. It may activate folks with similar lived experiences, beyond what feels safe to spend time with. Please engage with this story how/whenever it feels safe for you.


"Where did all the horses go? In Tamang mouth, ghost, and blossom come from the same root. In Tamang Tongue—there is no way to say this / in English."



***


Not many can say they’ve survived three flash floods, let alone in the same day. 


At 8:37 a.m. local time, as my mother slept just minutes away from her alarm, she drowned in the Gorkha district of Nepal, along the Nepal-Tibet border. As ice and rock collapsed from a glacier high in the Himalayas, water surged downstream via the Lhende Khola, Bhotekoshi, and Trishuli rivers, sweeping her home away with chunks of bridge, building, and road. Here in Canada, around 6:30 p.m. local time, a second flash flood rushed, unwanted, between my legs, in a dark supply closet at the end of my residency shift in the pediatric ward. The third poured as blood, minutes later, from a mouth a few floors down where my best friend was dying from cancer. 


That amount of water pressure should have powdered my bones. 


I limped out of the closet into the washroom across the hall, fell to the floor in the stall, and wept so there would be room for oxygen in my body. I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes, my friend was sitting across from me, bare ass on the floor under her hospital gown, wiping crystallized tears off my face with her thin thumbs. The ceiling fan swished the stale air; the sound of waves coming again and again. My mouth tasted like salt.


“I’m going to bloody kill him,” Gelly said, her Irish accent thicker, it seemed, to compensate for her body’s withering. 


“I can’t take any more death today, Gelly.” Dr. Williams, the lead physician on the floor, had been making comments to me for months. This time, after the news broke from Nepal, he told me he wanted to comfort me—that he wanted to make me feel better. Still in shock, I vaguely remember giving in to him touching me. Soon, his want took over, and he was too strong to stop. I hadn’t told Gelly this yet. 


“I know, love, I’m sorry.” She paused and, maintaining a serious face, said, “We should’ve shaved my hair tomorrow instead.”


I couldn’t help but smile, yet it felt wrong. And I still didn’t know what to do—I was waiting for more news, more information. My mother was dead. My childhood home was erased.

 

“How did you get up here?” Gelly snuck out often to see me, as long as she was physically able. More and more often, she wasn’t.


Gelly looked at me long and hard. “I told the receptionist the truth.”


I nodded, but didn’t say much in reply. The homesickness washed nausea over me, and I quickly spun around to throw up in the toilet. I could feel Gelly’s hands on my back as a brace. When I’d finished, she said: “Well, maybe you have room for my plan now?” 


“Your plan?” 


“Aye, my plan. I made a new friend downstairs. She’s a cook.”


I looked at my watch: 2:13 a.m. “Gelly, I need to go home and sleep.”


“No, no, no. Well, yes. But not quite yet. Right now, you need yam curry.”


“Yam curry? How do you figure on making yam curry?”


Gelly pulled me to my feet, tidied my thick black hair, took my hand, and led me down the hall. The hospital lights were still on, but many were sporadically dimmed. It was an eerie place to be on a quiet night, especially after such a violent day. Everything was still functioning, but not quite fully, as if run by ghosts. It seemed there was less colour in the already drab labyrinth of hallways, diluting and draining away like my tethers to Nepal. The burn of disinfectant from whoever had mopped the floors made my eyes water as we rounded the corner to the staff kitchen.


A nurse, maybe a few years older than me with long black braids and warm brown skin, stood with her back to us. She was organizing ingredients on the table with a tender touch: Purple yam, ginger and garlic paste, asafoetida, ground turmeric, salt, cumin, and coriander, Kashmiri chilli powder, chopped tomatoes, bhat, Greek yogurt, Tama Ko Achar, and Hariyo Khursani Ko Achar. How she found these ingredients, I had no idea, let alone how she snuck them into the hospital. There was a Nepalese grocer in the city, but I’d always figured I was the only one in the building who knew where it was.


The woman turned around and smiled kindly, just enough to see her dimples propping up a spray of freckles.


“Seti, this is Niimi, my nurse downstairs.”


Niimi placed her hands on her hips. “Seti, would you help me?”


Exhausted, delirious, and still gripping Gelly’s hand, I nodded. Gelly let go, stepping shakily off to the side to sit in one of the kitchen’s chairs. I made eye contact, aware of her exertion, but she nodded toward the table and smiled. She was so thin that her entire face wrinkled, though she was only 23. It was her wisdom, laughter, and kindness made visible; I wanted to believe. 


I walked slowly toward the table, guided by my hands as if they were a puppet’s. I started peeling the yams, cut them into one-inch chunks, and covered them with water to preserve the colour and texture. I heated the oil, slowly folding in the ginger and garlic pastes until they softened. Into the pan I dusted the turmeric, yam, and salt until shimmering golden brown. My fingers slid in the chilli powder, cumin, and ground coriander to cook for a few minutes, then the tomatoes to cook for a few more under the lid. As I removed it and sprinkled in the fresh coriander, I became aware of my mouth. It watered not only because I was hungry, but because I’d been speaking of my mother the whole time. 


Gelly and Niimi had been asking me questions about Nepal—about my parents, about their horses, and about my mom’s recipes and flower garden. How she loved the chef Santosh Shah, but thought he didn’t quite make yam curry right. Niimi handed me ingredients as Gelly asked their names and origins in Tamang. I scooped the steaming curry onto 3 paper plates, complete with bhat, Tama Ko Achar, Hariyo Khursani Ko Achar, and Greek yogurt.


When I finally sat down, deeply sore in body, mind, and spirit, I looked into Gelly and Niimi’s faces. Gelly was dying far from a home scarred with war and oft-forgotten colonial violence. Niimi’s tribe’s lands were being sold for military and economic development. We had known such loss, and yet, we each remembered something that very early morning: Curiosity about life in the face of death; offering an able body as Earth, the largest we know, cries for help; and making from ancestral memories while devastation and violation threaten to unmake them. My hands had become my mother’s in this small kitchen across the world.


There’s a poem I adore from Nepalese poet Samyak Shertok, called “Mother Tongue: A Haunting.” One line has settled uncomfortably in my heart for a long time: “If to speak one’s mother tongue is to keep one’s mother alive, / I kill my mother daily.” Earlier in the poem, he also writes: “In Tamang mouth, ghost, and blossom come from the same root.”


There is formal support, I know, for sexual violence, grief, and palliative care. The way Gelly and Niimi are looking at me now, eating our makeshift yam curry, I know I won’t have to find or approach help alone.


I can’t speak Tamang fluently, but the best nourishment that evening was the grief and love cooked into the meal—ingredients as containers. Right now is all we have sometimes. Right now, maybe, is all we need to keep each other, and by extension my family, alive in the way we know how.


Resources:

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


Amanda Gunn, “Ordinary Sugar” from Things I Didn’t Do with This Body. Copyright © 2023 by Amanda Gunn.


Artwork by Logan Brewer
Artwork by Logan Brewer

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 


My first encounter with Amanda Gunn’s “Ordinary Sugar” was through Poetry Unbound with Pádraig Ó’Tuama, not long after I read his bread recipe-poem and reflections on soup. Poems and recipes are kindred spirits, both in form and function. And, as Anthony Bourdain writes in Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook, “the ability to feed yourself and a few others with proficiency” is a vital, fundamental skill. Perhaps the same is true of poetry: We’re not all poets, but everyone can ask how they’re nourishing others with words, or learning how to absorb them for the soul. As Ó’Tuama writes:


“[R]ecipes are an old form of poetry, and I think a recipe and a poem each have a measure at the heart of them—a measure about pain, a measure about love, a measure about pleasure, or about survival. They’re giving a certain form of instruction that can turn you either towards the deliciousness of food or the deliciousness of language, that can help you look at your own life and feel like you’re finding something from it in the engagement with the writing.”


Gunn’s “Ordinary Sugar,” like opening an heirloom cookbook, unfolds the complexities of the generational relationship between poem and recipe. Recipes as poems—and vice versa—are a form of ancestral archiving and memory, amplified here in the rhyme of the second stanza: keep, knees, pristine, sweet, green, pleasurably, plenty. These words summarize the ‘story’ Gunn is sharing with us; rhyme aids memory for prayer, song, patience, attention, and presence.


Remembering is also an honouring of people and their circumstances, especially through a recipe and how it’s engaged with or followed: Making sweet potato pie from russets, the gleaming glass eye, pregnant wordlessness, and fast spinning through the kitchen. There isn’t a distinct narrative arc in the poem, per se, true to the patchwork our memories often are, but Gunn includes clear, specific, detailed snapshots—not temporally bound—and brings them alongside her present-day voice’s reflections, inviting us into Grandma Mattie’s life experience and ensuing motivations. Then, the poem tethers this archiving to a bearing of witness through time—how Gunn paid attention as a child and how she’s paying attention now, through inheritance. The stanzas move from Aunts Mary & Earline → Amanda → Grandma Mattie → Amanda → Amanda’s mother → Amanda. Generational influence is layered, akin to those graham cracker cakes, yellow cakes, and the recipe book they’re making was kept safe in.


In this vein, Gunn shows not only the desire her family had to soothe what might have been a difficult life, but a witnessing of why: Hunger, poverty, starvation, and the threat of scarcity are present because they’re remembered in the body, and therefore inherited as well: “Too, the ruthless / manic canning, putting by, / putting by, against memories / too near starvation—the / machine in her belly built / to last.”


Like the inheritance of poverty or scarcity—and the accompanying shame, fear, and silence—some things aren’t documented in a recipe book. Ways of survival and being are altogether missing from our present day-to-day lives: The economic intelligence and commitment to caring for a summer garden—weeding, tilling, watering, and feeding with eggshells and coffee grounds—and harvesting it before the first frost to have enough food for winter. But we all come from oral cultures, and Gunn’s poem seems to say: Don’t forget to witness and remember what wasn’t written down—it’s as much a part of the recipe (of survival) as the ordinary sugar made extraordinarily by love.


And ultimately, though an accessible free-verse poem in five stanzas, “Ordinary Sugar,” is in fact the recipe that includes as much as Gunn can gather. Through the language of food and cooking, it alchemizes its reader and speaker: What’s inherited takes a new shape when digested, then gifted, like the bread and jam in the final stanza. As Ó’Tuama says: “[A] recipe is an opportunity in writing to give some tools for survival as well as maybe a couple of quantities.” When we follow a recipe, it’s not only those fed who survive. The person who crafted it lives on, too.

bottom of page