We’re Not Here for the Fireworks. We’re Here for the Firewood
1. The Spark
I was talking to my coworker the other day about feminism in the early 2000s. Remember that era? The girlboss in stilettos. The she-e-o! The glittery declarations of “I can do what a man can do — in heels.” The sitcom arcs where the empowered woman was the one who could hold her liquor, land the job, ace the date, and never, ever fall apart.
We all clapped. We called it progress. And in some ways, it was.
But now, years later, I find myself in a quieter kind of feminism. One that isn’t asking to be celebrated. One that doesn’t need a headline or a power pose. One that knows the real strength is not in the firework — it’s in the firewood.
The daily tending. The slow burn. The refusal to go out.
2. The Pattern
So much of modern womanhood was shaped around the idea of proving we could do it all. Not just equality, but effortless equality. Performative resilience. The kind that says, “Sure I’m exhausted and unseen and stretched thin, but look — I’m still smiling!”
We were told the revolution looked like breaking the glass ceiling. But it often felt more like sweeping up the shards ourselves and then being asked to host brunch on top of them.
Somewhere along the way, we equated power with sparkle. With speed. With being undeniable.
But there’s another kind of power. It doesn’t flash. It doesn’t explode. It builds.
3. The Pivot
Now, I care more about the power that lasts through the winter. I care about the woman who steps away from the noise and lights a small, sacred fire no one claps for — but that keeps her, and maybe a few others, warm.
I care about staying. About softness. About discernment. About saying, “I don’t need to do it all. I need to do what matters.”
Slow burn feminism isn’t here to dazzle. It’s here to endure. It lives in steady presence, in mutual care, in boundaries, in grace. It’s in the way we don’t just shout — we listen. We don’t just hustle — we rest. We don’t just survive — we heal.
It is less performative, more devotional.
4. The Burn
May your strength never need to scream to be real.
May your softness never need to shrink to be safe.
May you tend your fire — not for show, but for survival.
Because we’re not here for the fireworks. We’re here for the firewood.