Mothers Are Supposed to Build the World. We Are Destroying It.
You know who is solely responsible for creating either a horrible or a better world?
Mothers.
And they — the ones who either never had real mothers or had broken ones — came for motherhood under the banners of feminism and equality. Which, let me tell you what that actually means in practice: paying double the taxes to a government that gives nothing back. It was sold as progress — infrastructure, healthcare, research, schools, transportation, trips to space. Beautiful promises. The reality? The medical system is a machine that makes the rich richer and keeps the sick sick. Schools are elaborate lie factories wrapped in a fear system designed to produce obedient, manageable children. Infrastructure exists to urbanise everything and quietly cut us off from nature. Research serves them — and every truth they’ve ever uncovered gets buried. The money flows directly into financing destruction, poisonous medicine, drugs, human trafficking, and modern slavery.
Feminism is the greatest propaganda of them all. Women’s rights — the greatest joke. What was wrong with just human rights? Instead, women are now eternally stressed to achieve, to succeed, to earn, to build a career and a family and a body and a personality — simultaneously, gracefully, without complaint. Where is this leading? I’ll tell you exactly where: to women becoming anxious, depleted, disconnected. Barren. Running on survival mode. Raising children on scarcity, anger, guilt, and blame — passing down a broken nervous system like an inheritance nobody asked for.
And then we wonder what kind of leaders these children will become.
I am not a feminist. I will never be. I believe in equity, in human rights — but not in the version of equality that was force-fed to me since birth. And I’ll say something that will make a lot of people uncomfortable: women who tell me we’re all doing our best are lying to themselves. Not maliciously — but dangerously. Because you chose to give life. That choice comes with a responsibility that no nanny, no screen, no McDonald’s drive-through can fulfill. Outsourcing the raising of your child to strangers, poisoned food and algorithms doesn’t make you liberated. It makes your child available to be programmed by someone else’s agenda. And they will grow up to either worship the system or become the system. Like us. Like the rest of the seven billion sheep.
Don’t tell me you’re doing your best when your best is optimised around a corporate success story. Don’t tell me you’re doing your best when you haven’t been present long enough to know what your child actually needs. Raising children on sugar, screens, seed oils, and scheduled one-hour windows of parental attention isn’t doing your best — it’s doing what’s convenient and calling it survival.
And here’s where it kills me. Because I’m not speaking from the outside.
I have one child. I ache for another — to hold a baby, to smell that specific kind of new life, to nurture something from the beginning again. But I can’t. Not right now. Because right now I am completely focused on raising a human being made of love — someone who might actually change something in this world when the time comes. And still, every single day, I feel guilty for being just a housewife. As if that’s small. As if that’s less. And that guilt — I know it’s going directly into him, whether I say a word or not.
I worked my whole life. I created, I built, I lived more lives than most people manage in one. I’m grateful for all of it. But for the past year, I chose to be home. And for that I get the looks. The oh, so what are you doing with your life now? The quiet pity from other mothers who say it’s okay, you’ll find your way — as if being present for my child is a detour, not a destination. I was refused a bank account because I have no income of my own. My husband supports me completely and genuinely — but even he, in moments of panic, says maybe two incomes would be better, then we could have another child. And do what — hire a nanny? See them for one hour a day? Know nothing about who they’re becoming?
What kind of life is that? If you become a stranger to your own child while they’re small, what stops you from being strangers when they grow up? If they raised themselves — found no one there when they needed guidance, love, or just someone to answer before it was too late — is it fair to blame them when they fall apart as adults? Is it fair to be surprised when they stop asking for help, because they learned early that help wasn’t coming?
I know what’s right. I carry that conviction completely. And yet the world — these demons dressed as humans — gives me the look. The you’re not enough look. Not a good enough mother, not a productive enough employee, not a successful enough entrepreneur. As if a person can be all of those things at once without breaking. As if a woman who gave birth, whose hormones and body and mind are still recalibrating, who needs rest and stillness and time — as if she is supposed to keep running indefinitely without cost.
I chose to stop running. I chose to watch my child become compassionate, loving, and genuinely happy. And I will carry the guilt of the world for that choice, apparently.
And the question I can never fully silence — after all of this, after all of us, how will he turn out?