Let’s talk about female rage, not the kind where we throw chairs, scream in traffic, scream at crying babies in flights (although that’s really tempting, I would absolutely love to do that actually). I mean the real, deep, generational, slow-cooked-in-misogyny kind of rage. The kind that simmers quietly in your chest while you smile and say “thank you” to a man who just explained how to use google maps.

Female rage is elegant. Controlled. Witty. It’s a glass of wine held in a fist.

It’s also me sitting in my apartment in canada, trying to plan a surprise visit to my parents in India, but instead picturing their faces light up when I come home, I am planning how not to get kidnapped or raped on the ride home.

Because surprise! I’m a woman.

And plot twist! India is still India.

It’s giving “family reunion” but make it a true crime special.

Because recently, a girl just like me got into a cab after landing at the airport, and the driver kidnapped and raped her.

So now, my family’s absolutely terrified and practically begging me not to get into a cab. They’re not being paranoid. They’re just realists in a country where being a woman comes with a built-in disclaimer: “For external use only. Handle with fear.”

I wanted to show up at the door like in the movies, mom crying, dad pretending he’s not crying, but no. Instead, I’m doing the next best thing, I’m texting one of my closest male friends to come pick me up from the airport, like I’m some precious cargo because, well… I kind of am. Apparently. That gave my family a little relief. Not complete relief, because let’s be honest, no woman’s ever truly “safe,” we’re just… less likely to die today.

And you know what? I’m mad. I’m exhausted.

But I’m also kind of done playing it cool.

Because female rage isn’t just slamming doors and writing angry Instagram captions.

It’s the rage of knowing I can’t do something as simple as surprise my own parents without running a risk. It’s the rage of having to ask a man for help just to exist safely.

It’s the rage of every “text me when you get home,” every Uber location share, every fake phone call we make in the backseat of a cab.

It’s rage buried under politeness, survival, seatbelts, and trauma.

And it’s hilarious, in that way where you laugh so you don’t cry. Like, imagine explaining this to a man:

Me: I want to surprise my parents.

Him: Aww that’s so cute!

Me: Yeah but I might get r*ped or murdered on the way from the airport.

Him:

Me:

Him:

The entire system: [buffering…]

This is the absurdity we live in.

But wait, of course there’s more.

Female rage is also being with a man who overpromises and underdelivers, every. single. time.

It’s the “I’ll change” followed by “well technically I didn’t lie, I just wasn’t specific.”

Female rage is learning to clap for crumbs. It’s hearing “at least he texts you back” and being told you should be grateful that a man washed his own damn dishes, takes care of the baby or helps around the house.

It’s navigating a dating pool where “emotionally available” is basically a myth and the bare minimum is considered a good personality trait.

Female rage is not getting that promotion at work because some dude who got hired after you, lifts boxes “more efficiently.”

It’s being told to “smile more” at the meeting you just carried.

It’s being interrupted mid-sentence and applauded for being “a great team player” while Chad gets “leadership potential” for saying exactly what you said…. five minutes later.

Female rage is subtle. Socially acceptable. It’s rage in lowercase. Rage with a side of customer service voice.

And you know what? Us women should be able to laugh with our friends about the fact that you might get m*rdered on your way home, because if we don’t laugh we’ll lose our minds.

Female rage is rewriting the group chat:

“Hey, I land at 9 pm. Can someone I trust pick me up so I don’t end up on a missing persons poster or a WhatsApp forward? Thanks boo!”

And even then, some man will say: “Don’t be so dramatic.”

And we’ll smile. And add that to the list, too.

And you know what? we still wake up. We function. We draw the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man (yes I had to include a Taylor Swift reference, how could I not?) we survive, with keys between our fingers and rage in our chest.

We are so used to this fear that this is basically a panic text under the pretext of a blog post.

So yes, I’m going home. No, I won’t be taking a cab.

And yes, I’m mad about it. But sure. I’ll “Smile more”