God Forbid a Woman Is Opinionated

Image credit: (Pinterest/Sherry Schmidt) 

This is not an outburst; it is an extended exercise in self-regulation through articulation of writing. A woman is not “venting” in the juvenile sense, nor is she seeking consensus or moral applause. She is performing what philosophy has always permitted: the translation of affect into structure. Language, for her, is not decoration—it is containment. Without it, anger leaks into places it does not belong. With it, anger becomes legible, disciplined, and therefore survivable.

God forbid a woman is opinionated. The phrase is cliché precisely because it remains accurate. Female conviction is still interpreted as excess, pathology, or spectacle. When a woman speaks with certainty, she is diagnosed; when she persists, she is demonised. The problem is never the content of her argument, but the audacity of her occupying intellectual space without apology.

What is practised here is paradoxical action: the refusal to soften what still hurts simply because others are uncomfortable with witnessing it. Silence does not neutralise disturbance; it merely relocates it inward. To speak while still affected is not hypocrisy—it is honesty. Those who demand composure before expression are often invested in preserving the conditions that caused the injury.

The hater and the hated are falsely imagined as opposites. In reality, they occupy mirrored positions, each insisting that the other “let it go” while remaining structurally incapable of doing so themselves. The irony lies in accusing us of lingering desperation while she continues to exhibit the same fixation with conspicuous persistence. Obsession is not measured by speech alone, but by reactivity. If a woman’s words persist, it is because the conditions that necessitated them have not been resolved.

There is something grotesquely intimate about being despised by strangers. Hatred of that intensity cannot be generated in a vacuum; it requires projection, narrative, and careful rehearsal. Applause is due, of course, to the unreliable narrator that he is. One does not loathe a person one has not already allowed into one’s mind. To hate women with such precision is to have already let us inside your head. 

A woman’s boundary was crossed not emotionally, but ethically. She was present. She observed. She recognised a violation and refused to aestheticise it as trivial spectacle or excuse it as misunderstanding. Moral codes do not require personal benefit to activate; they require only a spine.

The anger she carries is inseparable from the respect she once had. What follows is not born from strangers; it is born from proximity. It is not a loud explosion—it is a slow corrosion, eating away at what one believed to be solid. What unsettles her, as a woman, is not merely the man’s behaviour, but the fact that he defends no one—not even you, the replacement he shoved into 'her' seat—either privately or publicly, before or after the conflict emerged. Loyalty, when misdirected, becomes self-erasure. To go to war for a man who would only defend himself but not you is not devotion; it is pathetic self-erasure.

Men with saviour complexes do not want partners; they want proof of their own goodness. Women in their orbit become case studies, redemption arcs, or props in a morality play they control. Love, in this dynamic, is not mutual recognition—it is possession disguised as care. This opinionated woman assures that her rage is not theatrical for its own sake. It is grief refusing to be polite. Long friendships do not dissolve quietly overnight; they fracture. When history collapses, debris is inevitable. To demand elegance in the aftermath is to side with denial.

The sudden entrance of another woman into this conflict is not solidarity; it is interference masked as virtue. Defending a man at the expense of other women is not neutrality—it is alignment. And alignment has consequences, whether acknowledged or not. Therefore, the opinionated woman is now accused of desperation, of lingering, of being unable to let go. Yet it is always those who whisper obsessively in private who demand silence in public. Projection is a remarkable psychological defence: accusing the other of what one cannot bear to recognise in oneself.

Moreover, secret meetings, unresolved attachments, half-buried histories—these are not isolated incidents but recurring structures. Patterns do not care about intentions; they repeat regardless of how convincingly one performs innocence. I bet you will cry a river once you know how your man talked about you in order to defend himself. The distinction between two women here is not virtue signaling but self-respect: one refuses to be reduced to collateral damage, while another accepts displacement as the price of proximity to a man who will never defend her publicly when it matters.

Inevitably, facade-bound players crave narrative control. They want to be seen as heroes without submitting to scrutiny. Accountability disrupts their carefully constructed image, and so it must be discredited as bitterness, madness, or obsession. Thus, this opinionated woman’s writing enacts symbolic violence—not against bodies, but against myths. She dismantles illusions with sentences the way surgeons cut through tissue: precisely, deliberately, without apology for the mess it reveals underneath.

To refuse silence is not to refuse reckoning. On the contrary, articulation is how resolution begins. History advances because someone insists on naming what others benefit from obscuring. Remember, this anger does not reside solely in a woman or two—it circulates through years of shared memory, whispered conversations, and moments of recognition that confirm she had never imagined it alone. Suppressed truth has a way of resurfacing, regardless of how aggressively it is managed.

Ultimately, this opinionated woman does not write to destroy lives. She writes to prevent erasure. Memory remains the only form of justice available when accountability is denied. This hatred will haunt them to their grave. She is certain it already unsettles them, its persistence revealed not through her voice but through their continued reactivity—betrayed by the very way they inhabit their roles. And if this reads as excessive, unsettling, or cruel, that discomfort is not her responsibility to handle. This is her ethic: by refusing to prettify disrespect, by turning fury into form, and by forcing language to bear the weight of what she will not carry silently.

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Ps: For once, I knew him—not casually, not superficially, but in the way one knows a person after years of witnessing every failing. My pity sinks deeper than most would imagine, borne of recognition rather than sentiment. He will neither read this nor comprehend what lies behind the ink—his pursuit of wisdom so shallow it borders on oblivion. But she will, because she knows exactly what she is doing. I bet she'll ask Chatty only to find it a mirror she cannot smash in anger.