being the good woman won’t save you

don’t walk away empty-handed

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the lesson

in stories, the good woman wins. she stays soft, forgives quickly, loves without limit. she doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t raise her standards too high. she believes in growth, in the slow unfolding of someone else’s becoming. she waits. she holds on. she sees the best in them, even when it costs her the best of herself. and in the end, she is supposed to be rewarded for it. or so we’ve been led to believe.

except in the real world, being the good woman often just makes you the forgotten one. the exhausted one. the one who pours love into silence and still ends up alone. the one who gives her all and watches the other person walk away with it like it cost them nothing. it makes you the one who holds space for someone who never intended to grow into it. the one who swallows her needs in the name of grace, who bends until she can’t remember what standing tall felt like.

in real life, the good woman is the one who stays up reading articles on attachment styles and communication tips while he scrolls past her pain like it’s background noise. she makes excuses. she clings to potential. she dreams in decades. she thinks love means endurance. she puts in the work of two people and calls it commitment. she calls it devotion when it’s really slow erosion. and she keeps waiting for the story to catch up to the fairytale she was promised. but the truth is, no one is coming to reward her for her suffering.

being the good woman, in this world, is not an asset. it’s a liability. it’s the thing that gets taken for granted, not treasured. kindness without boundaries becomes currency. and there are people who will take and take without ever thinking of what they owe in return. maybe that’s the hardest part: not just that you were hurt, but that you stayed. that you handed out love like it was your duty, even as it hollowed you. and if you’re going to stay and be drained, you might as well get something out of it. otherwise, you’re just unraveling in hands that never meant to hold you.

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the cost

i like to believe i’m a good person. the kind who keeps the door open a little longer, who hears what wasn’t said, who carries the weight even when no one notices. i’m the woman who pauses before speaking, who bends before breaking, who forgives long after the apology has expired. i’ve played the good woman all my life. not once has it handed me a win. not in love. not in fairness. not even in the rooms where love was supposed to last.

my mother was married for twenty-five years. she stood by him through cancer, through weakness, through decades of quiet loyalty. she cooked, she cleaned, she kept him alive. she didn’t go out, didn’t ask for much, didn’t save a thing. and in the end, he cheated. no apology, no explanation. just a woman half her age and a vanishing act. she gave everything and got nothing. no house. no savings. no peace. her reward for loving well was being left like she never mattered. i learned early that sacrifice does not guarantee love. sometimes, it just makes you easier to leave.

the only reward i have ever truly known is the quiet, unwavering love of other women. i carry it like a lantern through winter, something small and life-saving that reminds me what care is supposed to feel like. goodness has never been enough. i have given and given until my hands ached, only to be told my softness was a weakness. my patience, a flaw. as if tenderness is just an open door men walk through on their way out. but i am not so naive anymore. i am done playing the good woman. i still believe in kindness, but it is no longer unconditional. it is not something i offer freely to those who cannot hold it. my softness is reserved for those who treat it with care. my love is not proof of character. it is a choice. and now, i choose more carefully.

it is exhausting to be a woman. not just because of what is expected of you, but because of how easily others are excused. men get to be complicated. they get to be cold, careless, emotionally absent. and still be loved for it. but women are asked to stretch until they snap. to love without needing too much. to be kind but not clingy. strong but not intimidating. selfless but not bitter. we are expected to understand their silence. to forgive their distance. to celebrate their crumbs. and when we break under the weight of it, the world tells us we were never easy to love to begin with.

they ask why we are so tired. why we carry rage like a second heartbeat. they do not see the years we have spent shrinking ourselves just to be tolerated. they do not see the way we flinch before asking for more. how we practise our needs down to the gentlest phrasing and still get called demanding. we are exhausted because we were raised on contradiction. told to be soft but not fragile. desirable but not too sexual. successful but not threatening. we are tired because we have never been allowed to simply exist without being dissected. because no matter how good we are, it is never quite good enough.

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the experiences

there’s a quiet desperation that lives in women who were taught to love by empty hands. who learned that affection must be earned, that softness must be proved. these women don’t just fall in love, they offer themselves like lifelines. they become therapists, life coaches, unpaid emotional labourers. they are told, explicitly or through implication, that this is what love looks like. it is not reciprocal; it is relentless.

when his messages fade or his attention thins, she doesn’t pull away. she leans in. she listens more, speaks more gently, tries to be what he might stay for. she thinks if she’s patient, if she’s easy to love, it will work. but she’s tending to something already gone. by the time she feels how hollow she’s become, he’s already gone, having quietly decided she was too much.

many of these men would sooner spend money than offer emotional presence. they’ll buy flowers after a fight but won’t unpack the anger. they’ll book trips but won’t answer questions. they’ll send gifts when they feel guilty, but never offer clarity. because it’s easier to swipe a card than to sit with discomfort. easier to perform care than to practise it. and if you are in this kind of dynamic, doing the emotional work of both people, then yes. ask for something tangible. if you’re going to be stretched thin, let there be compensation. staying and giving everything without return is not noble. it is quiet disappearance. reclaiming value doesn’t make you selfish. it makes you sane.

maybe that’s the secret so many women are never told. if you are already paying the cost of being with someone who cannot love you fully, you might as well negotiate the terms. if you are going to stay in a space that empties you, there should be something on the table. money, gifts, time, space. something that acknowledges the weight you carry. your presence is not free. your care is not infinite. and if they won’t meet you with reciprocity, let them meet you with consequence.

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the science

psychology backs this imbalance. women’s love languages are often quality time, words of affirmation, acts of service; the kinds of things that require thought, presence, and attention. men, on the other hand, are often socialised to express care through gifts or provision. not because they are incapable of depth, but because they were never taught that depth matters. they were told to provide, not to feel. they were praised for being stoic, not tender. and so, many of them perform love instead of living it.

neuroscience deepens this truth. the brain craves what feels familiar, even when it’s painful. women conditioned to over-function in relationships will keep chasing partners who give just enough to stay, but not enough to feel secure. intermittent reinforcement, the same principle used in slot machines, is one of the most powerful psychological hooks. the brain doesn’t light up for consistency. it lights up for possibility. if he shows up once in a while with affection, the nervous system takes that as proof. never mind that most days he is absent. he’s training her to cling to crumbs.

this is not a call to become cold. it’s not an argument for withholding softness. and it is certainly not a dismissal of the good men who show up, who communicate, who carry their weight. those men exist, and they are not the enemy. but we must recognise that not every person deserves the same access to our care. if someone cannot meet you emotionally, they should not get the luxury of your emotional labour. and if they expect you to do the work for both of you, then the very least they can do is pay for the damage.

your care is not free labour. your love is a resource, not a sacrifice. what looks like strength to others can actually be survival. many women in these dynamics aren’t choosing hyper-independence out of empowerment. they are adapting to neglect. they’ve learned that emotional consistency is rare, and so they provide it themselves. but love was never supposed to be self-managed. it was never meant to be this lopsided. if someone gets the benefit of your softness, they should also carry the weight of their part in it. otherwise, you’re just performing a duet alone.

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the unlearning

maybe the problem was never that you loved too much. maybe it’s that you were taught love was effort, not reciprocity. that it meant staying, even when it cost you yourself. maybe you learned being good meant being quiet. being kind meant being small. being patient meant waiting until you no longer recognised your own voice. this is what many of us were taught. not in words, but in gestures. in the women before us who kept giving. in the ones who never got to rest. we watched our mothers shrink so love could breathe. we watched our sisters go silent so men wouldn’t leave. we were raised by women who mistook endurance for love, and we inherited that script. we memorised every line. we performed it perfectly. and still, it left us empty.

but love is not endurance. love is not swallowing your needs just to be chosen. being wanted is not the same as being cherished. presence without care is not intimacy. attention without effort is not love. and yet, so many of us were raised to settle for less than what we need because we were afraid of asking for more. there is no reward for being the one who never complains. there is no medal for shrinking yourself into something softer just to be held. if you are giving your best and still being met with excuses, with silence, with absence, then no. you are not loved in the way you deserve. and that is not your failure. it is the inheritance of a world that taught women to see sacrifice as a virtue.

you are allowed to want more. to stop treating your love like a charity. to stop managing the emotional lives of others like it is your unpaid job. love is not a burden you carry alone. it is a mutual act.

being the good woman will not save you. not in a world that counts your effort but not your exhaustion. so let it cost them something. let it matter. let them see what it takes to carry this much grace.

and if they will not meet you with effort, let them meet you with consequence.

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