Why Women Kill
And why it’s frankly surprising that more don’t
I wish I could say I came up with this title myself, but I didn’t. It’s actually from a TV show I think every woman should watch. But maybe that’s exactly the point. The fact that it already exists, that it resonates, says enough. It’s not an original thought. It’s a collective truth.
Women, as a gender, build up anger. Layer by layer, year by year, through everything they endure: the impossible expectations, the silencing, the relentless balancing act of being everything to everyone. It’s not one big betrayal that breaks us, but a thousand small ones. A lifetime of dismissed voices, postponed dreams, and self-sacrifice disguised as duty and responsibility.
Eventually, it has to surface.
For some, that eruption is destructive, and scorches the earth. The powerlessness becomes suffocating. When the final straw lands, everything bottled up has nowhere left to go. I don’t believe women are born killers. But society sure does set the stage for them.
Others quietly implode. And most of us, we keep the fire contained. We simmer. Although most of the time, it feels more like treading water. We swim in a wild, unforgiving ocean, trying to keep our heads above water, only to be thrown under by an unexpected wave. Again and again. We swallow seawater, we choke, we cough, but we break through the surface. We take a deep breath, maybe drift on our backs for a moment to regain some strength. But we keep swimming.
Don’t worry. This is not a blog confessing to a murder. I haven’t been pushed that far (yet?).
But I do know what it’s like to swallow anger. To feel like everyone else’s wants, needs, and ambitions take priority over mine. To feel like my needs are background noise. Some of that I did to myself. Some of it was pushed onto me. Gift-wrapped in “that’s just the way it is.”
There’s a quote that often haunts my mind: “We expect women to work like they don’t have children and raise children as if they don’t work.” Yes! This completely insane but deeply ingrained idea is exactly what makes me want to scream with frustration. And on top of that we’re expected to work on our body, mind, and see friends.
On the one hand, working moms are seen as ambitious, sometimes too ambitious, for putting their careers ahead of their families. As if that choice is selfish. Meanwhile, a one-salary household is nearly impossible to sustain, and women are told to dream big. They’re told to shatter glass ceilings, to be the boss babe, the powerhouse, the trailblazer. But the moment they succeed or even just go for it, they become “too much.” Too bossy. Too selfish. Too controlling.
When I was working, I missed my son. But I also wanted to do well and take pride in my job. I dropped him off at 7 in the morning and picked him up when it was already getting dark. I felt like I missed everything, and still wasn’t performing well enough at work. I felt like a loser, even though I gave everything I had. I didn’t do anything outside of work or my baby. And when I did, I felt guilty.
On the other hand, the women who stay home, whether by choice or pressure, aren’t allowed to struggle. They’re not supposed to feel the weight of the never-ending household tasks, the invisible labor, the isolation. What are you complaining about? You have all the time in the world! Have you even heard of a deadline?
I took a break from work because I had pushed myself far beyond my physical limits. I was juggling a job, the house, night wakings, and caring for an infant. Still, it took me an entire year to recover from the pressure.
Because I wasn’t working, I felt like I had to compensate. I had to be the perfect mom. The one with homemade snacks, an immaculate house, and not a single wrinkle in her shirt.
If there was laundry left undone, I beat myself up.
If dinner wasn’t healthy enough, I beat myself up.
If I felt tired, frustrated, or even just bored, I beat myself up.
I even felt guilty for craving alone time.
Because how much more time to myself could I possibly need if I wasn’t working?
And when I admitted that I was overwhelmed, people would say, “But… you’re not working right now, are you?”
As if that explained everything.
As if waking up several times a night with a baby meant nothing.
As if I spent my days lounging.
But I didn’t sleep.
I didn’t rest.
When he was at daycare, I cleaned, I prepped, I organized, I tried to earn my place as the perfect mom and Stepford wife.
Except I looked like shit.
Even as I type this part about societal expectations of women, I know you’ve heard this rant before. None of it is new. But I’m saying it anyway. Because nothing is changing. Because I still feel the pressure to be everything for everyone. Because I still feel like I’m not allowed to complain. Because I have been both mothers: working and stay-at-home. And in both roles, I have felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and stretched so thin I might disappear.
And yet, my environment and the mental load whisper that I am constantly failing. It comes from friends, family, in-laws, my partner, the mother in the playground scolding me for letting my toddler watch Peppa Pig (Yes, I know she fat shames, and yes, I secretly hate that little pig as well). It comes from society calling out what a woman should be like. America Ferrera’s iconic Barbie monologue says it better than I ever could. I especially identify with the line: “And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.”
I’ve often fantasise about getting mildly injured just so I could spend a couple of days alone in a hospital bed, without having to care for anyone. With people actually caring for me.
Of course, I’m kidding! I don’t really want to get hurt.
(Or maybe just one tiny broken bone in my leg? Just kidding!)
(Kind of.)
But the fact remains: I’m tired.
Not “need a nap” tired. Existentially tired.
And what makes me even sadder is that women, especially moms, aren’t always kind to each other either. Sometimes I feel the most judged by other moms. And then there’s Instagram…
I don’t know if the mom police have always existed, but social media made them omnipresent. You’re not even safe on your own couch anymore.
I frantically follow dozens of Instagram moms to learn how to make sugar-free snacks, how to prevent my kid from becoming a spoiled brat without scarring him for life, and how to keep him entertained without screens. But also, I have to teach him how to be bored. But when he’s bored, I can’t get any chores or work done. If I give into his tantrums, I’m raising a monster. But now I’m still sitting at the dining table with an overturned plate on the floor, spaghetti sauce on the wall and in my hair, because I’m in a full-blown power struggle with a two-year-old.
When he’s finally asleep, I scroll through social media, looking for advice. For coping mechanisms. For something that makes sense.
And then I read things like:
“I bet you didn’t know that you are slowly killing your child.”
“Five things moms unintentionally do that create a bullying child.”
“Why you are a bad mom and should probably give up.”
Okay, that last one I haven’t actually read. But let’s be honest, that’s the underlying vibe of half the content out there.
I do my best not to judge other moms. Even when I catch myself doing it, I try to call myself out.
Because I don’t know what that family is going through.
I don’t know what they’ve been through.
I don’t know if I’m witnessing a snapshot, five minutes of weakness.
And I’m sure people have judged me at my weakest too.
I just hope not too many do in my best moments. I’m not asking for applause. I’m just asking for a damn life jacket.
And the fact remains that until society stops asking women to be everything, while giving them nothing in return, not space, not rest, not even real respect, there will always be rage.
So maybe the real question isn’t “Why do women kill?”
Maybe it’s:
“Why the hell don’t we more often?”
If this story resonated with you, leave a comment.
I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Read America Ferrera’s full monologue from Barbie (2023)
It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people.
You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood.
But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful.
You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.
I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.