I stopped identifying as a feminist years ago because I was tired of having my lived experiences dismissed by other feminists when said experiences didn’t fit their narrative or ideology.
I was tired of having other women presume to know my mind better than I do, by accusing me of having “internalized misogyny” and setting feminism back “by decades” because I chose to stay home and raise my son.
I was tired of being called an “MRA type”, among other things, for pointing out that letting them dictate how other women should think, speak, act, and live their lives, is not an improvement over men doing it; that feminism is supposed to be, at least in part, about empowering women to choose our own paths in life — not just switching from being controlled by men to being controlled by other feminists.
I was tired of having it made clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that I am not ‘one of them’ and will never be represented by them because, ironically, they could never seem to find the perfect sized box to keep me in.
And I’ve been better off and much happier since I stopped trying to live like a feminist, and just started living. I empowered myself by understanding that, despite what feminists would have me believe, I am not utterly helpless without them.