Sometimes I hate being a woman.
Not in a burn-the-bras, renounce-the-patriarchy, move-to-the-woods kind of way. More in a quiet, eye-twitchy, “why is this word always glued to us?” kind of way.
Manipulative.
Isn’t it funny how men are “strategic,” “private,” “mysterious,” or my personal favorite, “just not big on sharing,” but women? Oh no. We’re manipulative. Calculated. Social puppeteers with lip gloss.
Let me set the stage.
My friend had a birthday party for her daughter. It was cute. There were balloons. There was cake. There were the moms who look like they drink sparkling water unironically. And there was her — another friend in the group. They’re all about 40. I’m barely turning 29 this year. So already I’m the baby of the bunch, which means I swing between being “refreshing” and “suspicious.”
She was sitting alone. Not talking. Looking… let’s say unapproachable. Not evil. Not wicked. Just giving strong “I do not wish to participate” energy.
Nobody was talking to her. And then she fell. Which was sooo awkward.
And here’s the thing about me: I was a loser kid.
I know what it feels like to be the one people whisper about. I survived high school rumors. I survived being Not Liked before it was cool. So when I see someone sitting alone looking vaguely uncomfortable, my brain doesn’t say, “Avoid.” It says, “Go sit. Be normal. Make it less awkward.”
So I did.
Now, I don’t know this woman’s life story. I know a few of her interests. Books. Musicals. Her kid. Safe topics. Neutral territory. No politics. No trauma bonding. No weird oversharing.
Just normal, easy questions.
“Have you read anything good lately?”
“Do you use Libby? Is Hoopla actually worth the hype?”
“How’s your kid liking school?”
“Are you going to see Six at the Pantages?”
Normal. Civilized. Human conversation.
Apparently… that was manipulation.
Because later she tells our mutual friend that I “try too hard” to be her friend. That I can’t be trusted. That I’m a liar.
Why?
Because I secretly got married in November 2024 and didn’t tell everyone. We had our legal ceremony quietly. Then in October 2025—Halloween, because I’m dramatic and love a theme—we had the ceremony with my and Hector’s family and friends.
And somehow… that makes me untrustworthy.
This is not the first time I’ve been called manipulative for not announcing my wedding like a town crier with a bell.
But that’s a different post, one with a lot more emotion and a running list of relationships I’m still not sure will ever fully recover.
And I still stick with my original sentiment: I didn’t lie. I didn’t fabricate a husband. I just didn’t broadcast it.
And I truly, hand-on-my-heart wonder: if I were a man, would this even be a conversation?
If a man said, “Yeah, we did a small legal thing first and then celebrated later,” people would nod and go, “Smart. Kept it low key.”
But when I do it? It’s calculated. It’s secretive. It’s suspicious.
And when I sit next to someone who looks alone and make small talk? I’m “trying too hard.”
I think what really stings is this: I don’t expect everyone to like me.
I learned that lesson at 14 when I realized you can breathe wrong and still become a rumor.
I didn’t walk into adulthood thinking I’d magically be universally adored. I know I’m not everyone’s flavor. I’m a little sarcastic. I can be blunt. I work in customer service — which, if you’ve ever worked in customer service, you know it slowly transforms you into a person with the patience of a saint and the internal monologue of a villain.
I deal with incompetence daily. I deal with people who weaponize confusion. I deal with grown adults who cannot read signs. So yes, my tolerance for stupidity is… curated.
But that doesn’t mean my kindness is fake.
And I think that’s what bothers me the most. The assumption that if I’m being nice, it must be a strategy.
Maybe because I don’t look soft enough for my kindness to be believed. Maybe because when I’m comfortable, I can be a little bitchy. (Lovingly. Artistically. With flair.)
So when I’m warm and engaging, people think it’s a front.
But it’s not.
I want people to feel comfortable. I want to be liked. I’m not ashamed of that. I don’t need to be worshipped, but yes — I enjoy harmony. I enjoy knowing I didn’t contribute to someone feeling awkward in a corner.
And maybe that’s the most woman-coded thing about me. Caring.
Caring if someone is sitting alone.
Caring if people are comfortable.
Caring if someone secretly doesn’t like me.
Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t care so much if I weren’t socialized to smooth every edge in a room. If I were a man, maybe I’d just drink my soda, talk to two people, and leave without analyzing everyone’s facial expressions on the drive home.
But here I am.
A 29-year-old former loser kid turned customer-service-warrior turned apparently manipulative mastermind… because I asked someone about musicals.
If that’s manipulation, then Broadway owes me a Tony.
Maybe the truth is simpler: Some people are uncomfortable with kindness they didn’t ask for. Some people project. Some people need a villain to make sense of their own insecurity.
And sometimes, being a woman means your privacy is suspicious and your friendliness is strategic.
I still would rather be the girl who sits next to the lonely one.
Even if she calls me manipulative later.
At least I know my intentions. And they weren’t calculated.
They were just kind.
