I used to think feminist joy had to be loud. That it had to come in the form of fiery speeches, marches, protests, and revolutionary slogans. And while I deeply admire the women who find their joy there, I realised mine takes a different shape. It slips quietly into my everyday life, showing up in small victories, subtle rebellions, and personal choices that remind me I am free to define myself on my own terms.
Sometimes it is in academic spaces. The professor’s nod, the “good point” in class, or the email accepting my manuscript for publication does feel like feminist joy. It is the joy of being taken seriously, of knowing that my voice matters in spaces where women’s words were often dismissed. And when a 16-year-old girl comes to me with wide eyes and asks, ‘Didi, how did you do it?‘ I feel that joy multiply. In her question, I hear my younger self, hungry for assurance, desperate to know that this path is possible. Answering her feels like closing a loop. I am not only living for myself but also showing another girl that she can live fully too.
Feminist joy is also in the moment I step out after removing my specs and still feel beautiful. It is in choosing not to wear concealer and realising I do not crack up under the pressure of being barefaced in public. It is in walking with the confidence that my worth is not measured by how closely I fit into someone else’s beauty standards. For the longest time, I felt like I had to hide my blemishes, adjust my posture, or perfect my face before I could be seen. Now, when I let go of all that and still hold my head high, that is feminist joy.
It is also in small acts of refusal. Refusing to laugh at a joke that demeans women. Refusing to say ‘sorry‘ when I mean ‘thank you.‘ Refusing to shrink into the background to make others comfortable. Every no I say, every silence I hold, every decision to walk away from what does not serve me is its own kind of feminist joy.
Every no I say, every silence I hold, every decision to walk away from what does not serve me is its own kind of feminist joy.
There is joy, too, in the questions people throw at me. When a man asks with surprise, ‘How do you manage to do all of this?‘ I cannot help but smile. The disbelief in his tone is part irritation, part acknowledgment. For generations, women have been expected to manage everything quietly. When someone now notices and actually asks, I let that moment count. Because it means I am visible, not invisible, and I carry that visibility with pride.
My feminist joy is layered. It is academic validation, yes, but also the courage to be seen without concealer. It is in the smile of a 16-year-old girl who sees me as proof that dreams are possible. It is in a late-night walk where I do not worry about what others might think of me. It is in choosing to take myself seriously, not in a heavy or arrogant way, but in the quiet, steady way that says: I am enough, as I am.
There was a time when I desperately wanted to fit in. When I wanted to be perfect, polished, pleasing. But feminist joy has taught me that freedom is not in perfection, but in authenticity. It is in owning the tired face, the imperfect draft, the unfinished thought, and still believing they deserve space. And maybe that is what makes it so beautiful. It is not only in the big moments that shake the world. It is also in the quiet ones that let me live in it, unapologetically.
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