The Real TradWife Fallacy: How the Soft Life Sells Submission as Empowerment
- Kyla Perry
- Jul 3
- 4 min read
In a world reeling from the pressures of late-stage capitalism, digital escapism, and the lingering effects of a global pandemic, an interesting shift has emerged: some women are trading in the “girl boss” hustle for aprons, brooms, and a carefully curated ultra-domestic aesthetic. On TikTok, the trad-wife, short for “traditional wife,” has captivated young women. In this aestheticized return to the 1950s, housewifery is framed not as regression, but as liberation from the grind.
I’m not oppressed. I’m living the soft girl life. I am free from hustle culture. This is my empowerment.
But beneath the polished marble countertops and pastel milkmaid dresses lies something more complex. This isn’t about freedom, or even tradition. It’s a weaponized fantasy, manipulating nostalgia to sell submission as sanctuary from capitalism. At its core is a performance of idealized femininity, eerily echoing the Stepford Wife fallacy: the belief that perfection, love, and safety can be secured through soft obedience and aesthetic compliance. Like the robotic housewives of The Stepford Wives, the tradwife trend repackages subservience as empowerment.
But Who Are TradWives, Really?
Hannah Neeleman/Ballerina Farm/Instagram
The tradwife persona glamorizes ultimate domesticity and a romanticized return to the past. More than just stay-at-home moms, tradwives are committed to homemaking, cooking from scratch, submitting to their husbands’ leadership, and rejecting feminist ideals. But the trend is less about real 1950s housewives and more about visual performance: vintage curlers, frilly aprons, and sourdough bread rising in sun-drenched kitchens, set to slowed-down jazz.
The tradwife didn’t appear by accident. She arrived, clad in gingham, during a global crisis. Around 2020, TikTok saw a surge in tradwife content. Women like Nara Smith and Hannah Neeleman (Ballerina Farm), now figureheads of the trend, rose to prominence during this time.
When Burnout Meets Fantasy
The COVID-19 pandemic exposed cracks in modern work culture that had long been widening. Remote jobs blurred the lines between rest and labor, while essential workers faced burnout and low pay. Women, especially mothers, disproportionately lost jobs or faced discrimination in downsizing decisions.
At the same time, many women faced a growing double bind: juggling full-time jobs while managing most domestic duties. For many, outsourcing help was financially impossible. “Having it all” began to look more like “having a breakdown.” In that context, the tradwife’s promise of softness and simplicity might feel like a welcome relief.
But the comfort found in this identity is misplaced. The craving for simplicity in an overwhelming world isn’t a sign of feminism’s failure; it’s a response to capitalism’s collapse. At the intersection of burnout and fantasy, the tradwife persona emerged, not as rebellion, but retreat. Like the Stepford archetype, it offers the illusion of safety through submission.
The Real TradWife Fallacy
If the tradwife trend is a performance, its script borrows from feminist language. It’s not enough that tradwifery isn’t regressive; it’s framed as empowering. That framing leans on choice feminism, which argues that any decision made by a woman is inherently feminist. But not all choices serve collective liberation. Some choices reinforce systemic harm.
The tradwife trend is a prime example. Liberation cannot be reduced to individual preference, especially when that preference supports systems designed to limit women’s power. To frame submission as empowerment simply because it’s chosen isn’t just misleading; it’s strategic. This is the real tradwife fallacy: presenting retreat as freedom, but only for women who are partnered, financially supported, and protected by structural privilege.
This persona thrives on the myth of immunity. It suggests that being the “right kind of woman,” soft, agreeable, devoted, will shield you from patriarchal violence. That you’ll be spared because you’re not like those women, women who need abortion access, domestic violence shelters, or maternity leave. But misogyny doesn’t make exceptions. Submission doesn’t guarantee safety; it just ensures silence.
The Performance of Traditionalism
In reality, the tradwife lifestyle isn’t a return to tradition; it’s a stylized performance. The women who promote it are public figures building brands and profiting from visibility, not from sacrifice.
Take Hannah Neeleman, a.k.a. Ballerina Farm, who reportedly earned $30,000 in TikTok income last month alone. These influencers don’t live like 1950s housewives; they sell a filtered, profitable illusion. Gone are the harsh realities of that era: domestic abuse, racial segregation, limited sexual autonomy, and total financial dependence. In its place is a fantasy, neatly edited for public consumption and monetization.
Let’s be clear: you’re not tired because you failed as a woman, or because feminism failed you. You’re tired because capitalism is unsustainable. But the answer isn’t regression, it’s reform. Wanting rest, softness, and simplicity is deeply human. But those needs should inspire advocacy, not amnesia.
Rest doesn’t live in a rebranded Stepford fantasy. It lives in the present, just out of reach because the systems we live under refuse to make it accessible. Don’t be fooled by the aesthetic. And don’t mistake nostalgia for justice.
Commentaires