And Other Patriarchal Puzzles

Tracing aftershocks, gender roles, and the quiet longing for something real

I’m not trying to give the impression that I’m emotionally stuck in the wreckage of a breakup—but somehow, every time I catch up with my friends, the topic resurfaces. It’s not that I want to talk about it —it’s just that heartbreak leaves behind weird echoes, and mine seem to be louder in group chats. The rage has calmed, the paper cut has healed. As my best friend recently said, I’m handling it with surprising grace (which, honestly, is suspicious in itself, given my track record of interpreting ghosting as a metaphysical attack).

It’s just one of those subjects all girls cycle through—like bangs we got during a breakdown or blaming Mercury retrograde instead of our choices. We talk about it half for the catharsis, half for the comedy. And while I’m against the bimbofication of pain, I’ll admit: sometimes it’s fun to blame it all on men, exhale dramatically, and call it closure.

We laugh, we exaggerate but somewhere between the lines, we’re asking ourselves real questions about why we always end up exactly here.

I believe there’s more behind the melodrama. Maybe the reason it feels like closure to blame it on men is because, since god knows when, we’ve been carrying the weight of gender roles on our shoulders, maybe that’s why even a petty generalization—men are trash—feels momentarily empowering. Not because we believe it. But because for a second, it shifts the weight.

As a matter of fact, we’re still living under patriarchy—not as a concept, but as a concrete framework; it's a built environment. You can feel it in inscribed in everyday life: in lease agreements written with assumptions, in biased custody hearings, in job descriptions coded in gendered language. It shows up in the uneasy choreography of a first date, and in the fragile negotiations of a second chance. Why a woman’s ambition is celebrated, until it competes. Why her voice is welcomed, until it challenges.

Not that I know many men—I grew up in a house where the only shaving cream belonged to my legs. I was raised by women of honest and challenging femininity, no disclaimers attached. My mother wasn’t just “both parents”; she was her own infrastructure. She paid the bills, fought the bureaucracy, set curfews, fixed leaking pipes—or didn’t. (Once, a light bulb in the bathroom was supposed to be replaced, but she couldn’t manage it, so we lived with a flickering bulb for six months.) In fact, she called me this morning demanding I wish her a Happy Father’s Day—and she’s right.

There were no brothers, no uncles dropping in, no father. Just a matriarchy held together by lists, leftovers, and late-night advice. I didn’t grow up hearing what men do in a household—I grew up watching what women handle.

So yes, I’ve been deeply blessed to be surrounded by women. Women who laugh too loud, express opinions boldly, cry mid-sentence, lift each other’s bags and burdens. Women who taught me how to speak up, dress down, and write thank you cards.

And maybe that’s why the men I’ve encountered since stepping out into the world have felt, at best, unconvincing. Performative. Like they’d skimmed the table of content but skipped the reading. Still, I can’t bring myself to say “I hate men.” I'm not out here auditioning for misandry. I'm just saying the bar is subterranean, and yet somehow, some men manage to limbo under it.

That said, I do believe—though I’ve yet to meet one in the wild, but folklore suggests they exist—that there are men who’ve opted out of the fragile masculinity industrial complex. Men who don’t need applause for basic decency. Men who don’t treat being an ally like performance art, but instead just... listen. The ones who ask not, “What should I say?” but “What don’t I get?”

Rare? Yes. But not mythical. These men aren’t threats to feminism—they’re its awkward but sincere vocals. And honestly, a future built entirely on monologues isn’t empowerment. It’s just stylish loneliness. And I’m not interested in being stylish if it means being the only voice in the echo chamber.

Still, even the most self-assured among us—myself included—aren’t immune to the quieter negotiations of femininity. The unspoken social choreography where strength is softened, competence is downplayed, and success is rebranded as coincidence. I’ve seen women who expertly pilot their own lives suddenly forget how to split a bill or navigate a conversation about politics—not because they can’t, but because they’ve learned that a woman’s capability must never outshine a man’s usefulness. Sometimes it’s not even conscious—it’s inherited muscle memory, centuries-old survival strategy, costume-change feminism: be independent, but not intimidating; be successful, but never the one paying the bill.

A very close friend of mine said something I can’t stop thinking about. When I told her I had written his name as my plus-one to a ball in October (how naïve) —a formal invite, not a casual plan—she raised an eyebrow: “Do you think it might hurt his ego to be your guest?” She wasn’t being cynical. She was being observant. And she was right. Just like she was right when she pointed out that surprising him with a trip—because I could, because I wanted to—might bruise something deeper than pride: the illusion that masculinity means providing, controlling, orchestrating. Apparently, romance is only romantic when it reaffirms the right power dynamics.

And this is the part no one likes to admit: sometimes, it’s not just men upholding patriarchy—it’s women, too, participating in a performance we didn’t write but learned to rehearse flawlessly. We clip our own wings and call it savoir-faire. We curate our success into coincidence. We don’t lie, but we soften the truth—like telling a man you need him, when really, you just wanted to include him. We pretend our choices are compromises when they’re actually quiet concessions. And for what? To make fragility feel like strength. To make being wanted feel like being needed. To make a man more comfortable in the passenger seat by pretending he’s holding the map.

Circling back to the breakup—which, oddly enough, jump-started my brain more than it broke my heart—it wasn’t some cinematic “collapse”. No crying on kitchen floors. Just a quiet unraveling that left behind louder questions. The kind that don’t fit neatly on feminist infographics. Like: What was I actually looking for? What kind of love did I believe I deserved? And what kind of man did I think was capable of giving it—without asking for a standing ovation?

And then there’s the question that always seems to follow, somewhere between a sip of wine and a sigh: But did you love him?

I never quite know what to say. Because at the time, I didn’t yet know there was a difference between âşık olmak and sevmek.

He was charming. He was handsome—with big green eyes that looked almost too large for his face. His features had an odd kind of harmony: a long face, a strong chin, a bold nose, and eyes that seemed almost cartoonishly expressive. It didn’t follow conventional beauty, but it worked. I liked looking at him. I like people-watching, and his face held my attention like when you're not really watching for beauty, just for something you can’t quite name. And I won’t lie—he looked like the Mediterranean cousin of Louis Garrel, if Louis Garrel ironed his shirts and followed correct dinner etiquette. He smoked cigars like it was a cinematic gesture, buttoned his double-breasted suits with precision, and knew which fork to use. He wasn’t the messy type—I’m the one who romanticized all that onto him. I mistook aesthetic coherence for emotional compatibility.

So I dove in headfirst, attracted not just to him but to the version of myself I thought he could reflect back: elegant, desired, understood.

But now I wonder if I loved him—or if I just loved how much he fit the fantasy I had dressed up as love.

In Turkish, we have two verbs: âşık olmak and sevmek. The former is to fall—headfirst, recklessly, often blindly. But sevmek? Sevmek is to stay. It’s to love not just the parts that sparkle in candlelight, but the parts that sulk, doubt, overthink. It’s not cinematic—it’s consistent. It’s not about intensity—it’s about presence.

And that’s what I had been missing.

At first, I thought I wanted âşık olmak. The rush, the spark, the witty banter. Movie nights, mutual playlists, inside jokes that made the mundane feel like a curated scene. But âşık olmak is a kind of fever—it rises quickly, takes over your senses, and often burns out just as fast. It’s longing. It’s projection. It’s what you feel when someone mirrors your fantasy, not your reality.

Because then I found myself defending Wong Kar Wai to someone who confused him with Wes Anderson. I tried to explain—patiently—that Wong Kar Wai was the director, not a character, and that yes, In the Mood for Love wasn’t some random pick. It was something that meant a lot to me. A film threaded into my aesthetic language, my emotional archive. But instead of curiosity, I was met with blankness.

What hurt wasn’t the confusion—I could’ve forgiven that. It was the fact that I had been genuinely excited to share something I loved. And he didn’t even bother to watch the trailer. Didn’t fake curiosity. Didn’t even pretend to be interested to make me feel seen. I wasn’t asking for cinephilia—just a sparkle of enthusiasm. A willingness to enter my world for two minutes and thirteen seconds. Instead, I got a redirect. And then, somehow, the suggestion that I might be pretending. As if depth was suspicious. As if my joy was performative. That’s the moment I realized: the worst kind of dismissal doesn’t come from disinterest—it comes from someone who can’t even be bothered to fake it.

Explaining over and over that expressing how I feel is not “starting a fight.” Realizing I was being told I’m “too heavy” for simply asking not to be dismissed. That being “too much” wasn’t about volume—it was about clarity. About refusing to thin myself into something less threatening, less thoughtful, less alive.

That’s when I understood: âşık olmak isn’t enough when the person you’re in love with can’t meet you in your emotional and intellectual language. When every attempt at honesty is misinterpreted as drama. When being seen as “too much” becomes a metaphors for “you made me feel something I didn’t want to deal with.”

Sevmek is different. It’s slower, quieter, less adorned. It doesn’t flinch at feelings. It doesn’t call you “a bit too much” when you’re just trying to speak. It asks questions like “What don’t I get?” instead of shutting down the conversation altogether. It shows up in the mundane: in listening to a voice note in a timely manner, in learning your references, in not weaponizing “don’t be a victim” when you’re simply saying it hurts.

I don’t need the thrill of being loved loudly. I need the consistency of being loved well.

He didn’t want my depth, he wanted a performative submissiveness. He didn’t want honesty, he wanted peace and quiet—on his terms. 

At some point, I asked him what he liked about me. Not in a desperate way—just out of genuine curiosity during a heated discussion. His answer? “Your sweetness.” I felt something in me collapse. Of all the things he could’ve said—my wit, my thoughts, the way I turn ordinary stories into essays—that was the trait he landed on. Sweetness. The quality most associated with toning down, smoothing over, being agreeable. I told him bluntly that it was the worst possible answer. He laughed it off and said, “Well, I could’ve said it’s because you’re pretty or have a hot body, that would’ve been worse.” But the fact that he framed those as the only alternatives made it even more demeaning. As if my worth had to fit into either softness or sex appeal—anything but sharpness. What he liked about me wasn’t who I was in full, it was who I became when I dimmed the lights on myself. And that’s not love. That’s aesthetic preference disguised as affection.

And when I finally refused to dilute myself, when I said no, that I wouldn’t apologize for texting male friends or asking to be spoken to with care, he didn’t lean in. He shut down. Or worse, lashed out. Told me I didn’t deserve to be let in—because I’d been asking to.

Let me be clear: this isn’t an attack. He simply wasn’t my person—and somewhere deep down, I always knew it. But I would never drag him through the mud, because I let him into my life—both casually and officially—for months. To demean him would be to demean my own choices, my own capacity for hope. And yet, I also can’t ignore the quiet truth that he couldn’t give me what I needed, or even wanted. There was one night when I stumbled upon a handwritten letter from my ex-boyfriend, the one I spent five years with. I’d seen it before, a few times over the last two years, and it always made me pause, but never cry. This time, the tears arrived before I even knew I was crying. Not because I wanted him back, but because I remembered how it felt to be loved with care. I wasn’t being treated like that anymore. And in that moment, I realized: sometimes, losing something is better than holding on to a version of it that’s been hollowed out. A love that no longer meets your standards is worse than no love at all.

So I left. Not in hysteria, but in full clarity. Because I now know the difference between the kind of love that flickers and the kind that holds. Between âşık olmak—all heat, no light—and sevmek, which illuminates without burning you down. I’m no longer flattered by men who say they came all this way for me, only to leave at the first sign of my complexity. I don’t want to be loved for how small I can make myself. I want to be loved for everything I refuse to shrink.

But when you’ve grown up under patriarchy, you learn early that women are expected to do the emotional translation work—soften the message, cushion the truth, manage not only our feelings but theirs too. And for a while, I did. I made myself smaller, sweeter, simpler.

But love without understanding isn’t love—it’s performance. And I am done applauding. I want a love that holds complexity without punishment. One that doesn’t crumble when I show up fully.
If that makes me “too much,” so be it.

Because really, that’s the final insult of patriarchy: it hands women the full emotional outline, then expects us to do all the homework—quietly, gracefully, with a smile. We’re taught to self-regulate, self-censor, self-soothe, and then say thank you for the bare minimum. We’re fluent in apology. Conversational in pretending not to care. And meanwhile, men get away with calling confusion depth, detachment mystery, and avoidance a boundary.

So no—I won’t translate my feelings into something easier to digest. I’ve spent enough time whispering so someone else’s ego wouldn’t flinch.

From now on, I speak in full volume.

And if it cuts—good. Let it bleed. Maybe that’s what it takes to feel something real.

*No men were harmed in the making of this essay. Unfortunately. A few were briefly mentioned, some were gently intellectualized, one may or may not still have me muted. But rest assured: all fragile egos remain intact, all double-breasted suits unwrinkled - although, full disclosure, I did spot a crease in one on an Instagram story, but “unwrinkled” just reads better. Any resemblance to real persons is entirely intentional.

*And yes—if you're wondering—I still miss something about him. Which is annoying. But so is life. Contradictions are just another form of honesty, and apparently, I'm fluent in that too.

*Just to be fair—I don’t want to do injustice to the specific person mentioned here. There was good in the relationship. There was also the precious. Not everything was hollow. But for the sake of this essay, he became a rhetorical motif—something that helped me examine a larger pattern. This is not an attack. It’s a reflection. And even in reflection, I’ll keep the good and the precious quietly for myself. After all, I did admit—somewhere in the margins of all this thinking—that there’s something I miss.