The Gospel of Feminine Joy

I was coming down the escalator at this comic convention over the weekend, carrying the weight of a long day of promoting our show and selling my husband’s artwork, when I paused for just a moment and let myself really look around. The hum of voices, the flashing lights, the glitter of costumes. The whole place felt alive, electric, like stepping into another world where magic and play weren’t just allowed but celebrated.

Everywhere I looked, there were young girls, teenagers, and women in their early twenties, dressed in the full glory of their characters with flowing capes, intricate armor, beautiful wigs, and bold makeup. They were radiant, unafraid, fully inhabiting the parts of themselves they loved most. In that moment, I felt this unexpected twinge deep in my chest, a mix of jealousy, sadness, and longing.

I realized, standing there, that I missed this. Not this exact convention, but what it represented: the freedom to play, to take up space, and to embody joy so unapologetically. When I was their age, there would have been no way in hell I could have afforded to go to something like this, even if I’d known it existed. Back then, scraping together enough money for a movie ticket or a night of roller skating was a stretch, and conventions like this weren’t really part of my world yet. I was a teenager in the late ’90s and early 2000s, well before comic culture exploded the way it has now. There were no sprawling convention centers packed with fans, no elaborate cosplay weekends, and definitely no Instagram-worthy snapshots of community and belonging.

And even if there had been? I doubt I would have gone.

Because being a girl who loved comics and animated shows like Batman: The Animated Series (one of my all-time favorites) wasn’t something you celebrated back then. Being “geeky” wasn’t cute. It wasn’t trending. It was something you learned to tuck away because, as I heard over and over again, “that’s not what girls do.” Girls didn’t wear superhero shirts. Girls didn’t play video games. Girls didn’t spend hours drawing characters or obsessing over storylines. Girls were supposed to be soft, pretty, and quiet.

So I learned early what so many of us learn: to shrink. To suppress the parts of myself that lit up, to swallow my curiosities, and to pour my energy into becoming the kind of girl the world approved of.

That’s the story we were told, isn’t it? That “feminine joy” had a rulebook: Be delighted by cooking, sewing, and decorating the house. Find your deepest fulfillment in getting married, having children, and keeping everything running for everyone else. Always available, always giving, always tidy, always polite. And if you didn’t find joy there? Well, the assumption wasn’t that something was wrong with the story. The assumption was that something was wrong with you.

Standing on that escalator, watching those girls twirl, laugh, and pose like they belonged, I felt that clash inside me. The grief of missed chances, the mourning for a younger me who wanted so badly to exist freely but couldn’t find the space or the permission to do it. Yet, underneath the grief, something else stirred.

Something rebellious.

Because the gospel of feminine joy, the one we were never given, the one so many of us are writing for ourselves now, begins right here: in remembering. In honoring the ache of all the times we silenced ourselves. In naming the ways our pleasures and passions were dismissed and in finally, defiantly, choosing to reclaim them.

This isn’t just my story. It’s ours.

This moment, this grief, and this longing, they’re collective. They live in our bodies. They live in the questions we weren’t allowed to ask and the rooms we weren’t invited into. But they also live in the parts of us that are still wild, still alive, and still hungry for the joy we were told we couldn’t have.

This gospel, this reclamation, is the invitation to step into that joy anyway.

The Script We Were Handed

Somewhere along the way, someone slipped us a script. Maybe it was hidden in glossy magazine ads, tucked into old TV commercials, or whispered in the way mothers, grandmothers, and teachers smiled when we “behaved.” A script telling us what joy should look like, who we should be, and how happiness should always be measured by the ways we served others.

I think back to those 1950s and 60s advertisements. You know the ones with the perfect housewife smiling in her spotless kitchen. She’s wearing a crisp dress and a little white apron without a single stain, holding a platter with dinner perfectly displayed. Her husband lounges behind her in his chair, pipe in his mouth, and newspaper unfolded, satisfied. The children are dressed neatly, sitting straight, eyes shining for the camera. And she? She is radiant, glowing, fulfilled…or so we were told.

This is where feminine joy began to be defined for us: in propaganda. In curated images designed not to reflect truth but to sell us a dream. Alongside that dream came the darkness we weren’t supposed to see. At the same time those images were flooding magazines and living rooms, doctors were handing out pills. “Mommy’s Little Helper”, that’s what they called them. Valium prescriptions climbed, numbing women into quiet compliance while feeding the illusion of contentment.

In 1966, The Rolling Stones captured the reality buried beneath the perfect pictures:

"Mother needs something today to calm her down.
And though she’s not really ill, there’s a little yellow pill.
She goes running for the shelter of her mother’s little helper,
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day."

This was the trade-off: perform the role, swallow the discomfort, and medicate the longing. Feminine “happiness” became a façade: something curated, polished, and manufactured rather than embodied.

The role itself was narrow and suffocating. Joy was framed through service: being a good wife, a good mother, and a good caretaker. There was little space left for curiosity, creativity, or personal exploration. Women learned early that intrinsic desires were expendable; that the “self” could be neatly folded away like a napkin at a perfectly set table. Over time, our individual wants, wildness, and internal rhythms were silenced beneath an identity scripted for us.

The Modern Echoes

Now, here we are today, decades later, pretending that script disappeared. It didn’t, it just shapeshifted.

Now, “women’s happiness” is framed around impossible expectations: be a devoted mother, a flawless partner, a high achiever at work, and a keeper of the home…all without showing strain. When we can’t possibly do it all, society whispers that we are the problem. We’re told we lack balance, discipline, and organization. But I don’t buy that.

I don’t believe the problem is that we can’t “have it all.” I believe the problem is that having it all was never supposed to define us in the first place. The script was flawed from the beginning, and yet here we are, still performing it and still measuring our worth by what we accomplish for everyone else.

If I’m honest, that realization stings. Because I feel it in my own life, too.

Where It Lands in My Life

Every year, someone asks me what I want for Mother’s Day, and every year, I laugh. I laugh because the answer is always the same: I want to be left alone. I want a day where I’m not needed, not performing, and not responsible for anyone else’s comfort.

So that’s what I do. One day out of 365, I lock myself in my room, eat tacos, and play Fallout (New Vegas, 3, or 4 depending on my mood) for hours on end. No cooking, no laundry, no endless to-do lists. It’s just me, my Xbox controller, my favorite game, and my happiest version of solitude. If someone were to make an action figure of Natasha, it would come with a Fallout disc, an Xbox controller, a taco, and yes, my phone. All my little symbols of freedom.

Yet, I get one day. One single day out of an entire year to experience joy that belongs fully to me. I know I’m not alone in this. Most women don’t get even that much. Some never get a day at all.

The Picture-Perfect Struggle

I think about the videos I see on TikTok, the ones where women plan elaborate family photo shoots. For many, that one picture, that one beautiful, curated snapshot, is their sliver of joy. They buy the outfits, do their hair, dress the kids, organize the details, and fight tooth and nail to get their family on board.

Yet, so often, their partners complain. The kids resist. The entire process drains them before they even reach the studio. But they do it anyway, clinging to the promise of that single moment: the perfectly framed photo where, just for an instant, everyone looks happy. It’s not about vanity. It’s about carving out one thing, that one expression of care for themselves, one place where they can breathe and see beauty reflected back at them.

But even that moment is mired in exhaustion, resistance, and the invisible labor required to make it happen. Joy becomes something earned, something fought for, instead of something freely claimed.

The Turning Point

Maybe that’s what’s breaking us. We’ve been sold this lie about what joy should look like and we’ve been taught to squeeze ourselves into the smallest possible box to fit it. We’ve traded authenticity for performance, individuality for expectation, freedom for approval.

But here’s the quiet, dangerous truth the old scripts never wanted us to know:
authentic joy is rebellion.

Joy that isn’t curated.
Joy that doesn’t serve anyone else.
Joy that exists simply because you do.

If the world profits from your exhaustion, then the act of resting, choosing, playing, and feeling deeply that is your revolution.

Joy Is a Rebellion

There comes a moment when something stirs inside of us . A discomfort so deep we can’t ignore it anymore. It’s that quiet knowing that whispers at first, then grows louder with time: I can’t keep living like this. It’s the realization that if we don’t draw the line, no one else will.

Because here’s the truth: no one is going to guard your happiness for you. Not the spouses or partners who assume you’ll pick up the pieces. Not the parents who expect you to make yourself endlessly available. Not the friends who lean so heavily without ever giving back. Not the bosses, the managers, or the coworkers who swallow your time without apology. Not the kids, who, without malice, believe we exist as an extension of their needs.

For so many of us, joy has been pushed to the edges of our lives. We’ve been conditioned to believe our worth lives in what we give: in the meals cooked, the schedules managed, the roles we play, and the pieces we hold together. We’ve learned to measure our happiness by the happiness of everyone around us, often without even noticing how many times we’ve set our own aside. We are taught, explicitly and quietly, to fear the word “no,” to feel guilty when we take up space, and to believe that boundaries are selfish.

But joy, real, unfiltered, authentic joy, is not selfish. It’s a rebellion.

Rebellion begins when we decide to stop waiting for permission. It begins the moment we say: This part of my life, this time I carve out for myself, is mine. It is sacred. It is non-negotiable. That is your happy time, and it deserves to exist just as much as anyone else’s needs do.

Happy time can be small, quiet, and simple. It can look like watching an episode of your favorite show without waiting until everyone else is asleep. It can be a Saturday afternoon where you take the car and wander the aisles of your favorite bookstore or mall while someone else handles the kids, the pets, the dishes, and the endless list of responsibilities. Maybe it’s a glass of wine and a good murder mystery. Maybe it’s a drive to the beach, slipping your toes into the sand, and cracking open that book you’ve been meaning to read for months. Maybe it’s planting something new in the garden, losing yourself in the dirt and the silence.

But here’s the main thing: the boundary has to be firm. Your happy time isn’t up for negotiation and protecting it isn’t up for debate. Unless it’s an emergency. I am talking someone is bleeding and needs to be rushed to the hospital. If it isn’t a true emergency, your time belongs to you. That might mean saying no to friends. It might mean asking your partner to pick up the pieces you usually manage. It might mean letting the kids cry when you don’t share your snack or when you take ten minutes behind a closed door. That’s okay. You’re teaching them something powerful: that joy matters. That your needs matter. That your boundaries are not flexible and that is ok.

Because here’s the secret we were never told when we choose ourselves, the world doesn’t fall apart. When we protect our joy, we show the people around us how to protect theirs. That ripple effect? That’s where the real rebellion lives.

Reflect + Reclaim Your Joy

Take a moment and sit with these questions, not from the roles you play, but from the core of who you are:

• What does authentic joy look like for you?

• What lights you up inside, simply because it’s yours?

• Where can you carve out happy time, even just 30 minutes, to reconnect with it?

• What boundaries will you need to protect that time?

• What obstacles tend to get in the way? How can you meet them differently this time?

Write it out. Speak it aloud. Share it with me in my Substack post or over on my social media pages. Start the conversation not just with me, but with yourself. Because the act of naming your joy is the first step in reclaiming it.