The woman who thinks she can choose femininity, can toy with it

Hear the words of Rachel Cusk, sharp and unflinching, as she lays bare the peril of illusion: “The woman who thinks she can choose femininity, can toy with it like the social drinker toys with wine—well, she's asking for it, asking to be undone, devoured, asking to spend her life perpetrating a new fraud, manufacturing a new fake identity, only this time it's her equality that's fake.” These are not gentle words; they are words of fire, forged in the struggle of women to define themselves in a world that has long defined them. She speaks to the danger of treating femininity as a costume that can be worn or discarded at will, as though identity were a game, rather than a force that shapes destiny.

The meaning of her saying is deep and unsettling. To Cusk, femininity is not a trivial choice, like a glass of wine sipped or set aside. It is a structure of power, a field of expectations, a role heavy with history and consequence. To think one can “toy” with it, using it when convenient and discarding it when not, is to misunderstand the way society devours such choices. A woman who pretends to freely adopt femininity risks being bound by it, trapped in a fraudulent identity that is neither true liberation nor authentic selfhood. Worse still, she risks having her equality itself become fake, because it is built not upon truth, but upon performance.

The origin of this insight lies in the long history of women’s struggle for equality. For centuries, women were told that their value lay in their femininity: in beauty, gentleness, obedience, and care. When feminism arose, it sought to break these chains, to say that womanhood was not destiny, but choice. Yet Cusk warns that the danger still lingers: if a woman believes she can freely “choose femininity” in a world that still enforces it, she risks being undone by forces greater than her will. It is like walking into a cage believing the bars are decorative.

History gives us stark examples. Consider Marie Antoinette, queen of France, who embraced the performance of femininity—dresses, perfumes, charm—as though it were a stage she could control. For a time, it gave her power, but when the Revolution came, those very trappings became weapons against her, symbols of fraud and excess. She was not liberated by her chosen femininity; she was destroyed by it. Her story is a mirror of Cusk’s warning: that to toy with the symbols of power without reckoning with their roots is to risk being devoured.

And yet, Cusk’s words are not meant to banish femininity, but to call for authenticity. What she denounces is not the expression of womanhood, but the illusion of choice where choice does not truly exist. If femininity is embraced without awareness of its weight, without questioning whether it serves truth or merely reimposes chains, then it becomes a mask. Behind that mask, equality itself is hollow, a shadow without substance. True freedom lies not in donning femininity as one dons an accessory, but in confronting it, reshaping it, and deciding whether it aligns with one’s true self.

The lesson, then, is this: do not play lightly with identities forged in oppression. If you embrace femininity, do so with eyes wide open, knowing its history, its risks, and its power to shape perception. Do not allow society to trick you into thinking that equality can be achieved while still performing the very roles that deny it. Seek instead a deeper authenticity, where your equality is rooted not in masks, but in truth.

So, children of tomorrow, take this teaching to heart. Question the roles handed to you. Examine whether the identities you wear are freely chosen or subtly imposed. Do not confuse performance with liberation, or fashion with freedom. Build your equality upon authenticity, not upon fraud. For only then will your dignity be real, your freedom enduring, and your soul safe from being undone and devoured by the false promises of the world.