I used to call myself a feminist. For years, that word felt like a badge of honor—proof that I was awake, aware, and on the right side of history. I carried it through college debates, social media arguments, and every heated conversation about power, patriarchy, and equality. I believed feminism stood for justice. I was convinced it was about defending the vulnerable, uplifting women’s voices, and making sure we all had a fair shot. But what I didn’t see—at least not at first—was how the deeper currents of this ideology were reshaping my heart, my relationships, and my view of God’s design.

The Awakening

My story starts in a college philosophy class. The professor, an outspoken activist, painted the world in stark colors: men were oppressors, women their victims. Every discussion circled back to power—even back to the very beginnings of Genesis. I remember being struck by how easily we rewrote Scripture to justify resentment. Eve was “liberated,” Adam was “controlling,” and the serpent’s lie was almost admired for its revolutionary spirit. I began reading the Bible as a document of patriarchal abuse, not a gift of divine truth.

Soon I gravitated toward women’s groups on campus. We marched, blogged, and shared stories of struggle and triumph. There was a sense of belonging—a sisterhood united by shared wounds. But there was also a hard edge to our conversations. Those who disagreed were “internalized misogynists.” Men were either allies (and therefore expected to feel guilty) or part of the problem. Everything became a battle.

Building Walls

The longer I lived in activist circles, the more suspicious I became—not just of men, but of anyone who dared to question my worldview. I couldn’t see it at the time, but my hunger for justice had become a habit of judgment. I scrutinized every conversation for microaggressions and interpreted disagreement as oppression.

Church became awkward. Sermons about marriage, submission, or male leadership made my skin crawl. I tried out progressive churches, but they felt hollow—like they were echoing the culture rather than standing apart from it. Still, I found it easier to blame Christianity than to ask if my anger had gone off course.

Somewhere in those restless years, I lost the ability to see people as individuals. Every man who made a careless joke became further proof of patriarchy’s poison. Every friend who got married became a “traitor to the cause.” I congratulated myself on “raising awareness,” but deep down I was lonely, bitter, and exhausted.

The Cracks Begin to Show

Everything changed when my younger sister got married. She chose a man of faith—gentle, sacrificial, strong in ways feminism taught me to despise. Watching their relationship, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: mutual respect, laughter, and a shared commitment to loving each other sacrificially. There were no power games—just grace, humility, and partnership. Her happiness was not submission; it was freedom.

That forced me to admit something uncomfortable. I had spent years running from the very thing that brought her joy: God’s design for men and women. I realized that for all my talk about equality, I had spent far more energy resenting men than blessing women. Feminism had taught me to critique, but not to build. It made me good at spotting problems, but left me empty on solutions.

Conversations with my sister slowly peeled back the defenses. She listened without judgment as I vented about injustice and sexism, but she wouldn’t join the chorus of outrage. Instead, she talked to me about grace—about forgiving men who failed, forgiving women who wound each other, and trusting Jesus to sort out the mess where human justice falls short.

Relearning the Gospel

One night, during a tearful argument, I finally broke. “Why do you forgive them so easily?” I demanded. “How can you just let it go when the world still treats women like garbage?” She looked at me, eyes brimming with both sorrow and compassion.

“Because I’ve been forgiven more than I could ever count,” she whispered. “And because holding onto hate is just another kind of bondage.” Those words lingered long after the fight was over.

I began reading Scripture again, not as ammunition, but as revelation. I saw how Jesus treated women—not as projects, but as precious. He dignified the shamed, defended the oppressed, and challenged the proud. Yet, He never assigned blame to one gender; He called every individual to repentance and new life.

Slowly, the walls began to fall. I repented of my bitterness, my pride, and the ways I had used my hurt as a weapon. Where activism had left me angry, the gospel offered peace. Where feminism demanded constant vigilance, the Holy Spirit offered rest.

Unlearning the Slogans

Walking away from feminist identity was not easy or instant. There were setbacks—moments when I wanted to slip back into old patterns of outrage and blame. Sometimes I still feel the urge to critique every word spoken by a man or to recoil when the church falls short on justice.

But God’s grace keeps reshaping me. I now see my value—not in my power to resist men, but in my adoption as God’s daughter. I no longer need to define myself in opposition; I can love without needing to control. I strive to listen before I judge, and to pray for the men in my life as brothers, not adversaries.

A Message for Others

I’m not naïve about sin. Men (and women) have failed each other in terrible ways. There is real pain caused by abuse, exploitation, and indifference. But the cure isn’t more anger or another ideology—it’s Jesus. His cross is the only place where true justice and true mercy meet.

If you are reading this and feel trapped in the cycle of outrage, identity politics, or exhaustion, take heart. God’s grace is bigger than feminism, bigger than patriarchy, bigger than all our failed attempts to fix the world ourselves. True freedom, I have learned, comes from laying down my outrage and embracing the scandalous mercy of Christ.

Let’s stop measuring worth by power or pain. Instead, let’s build each other up, honoring the design God gave us as men and women—equal in value, different in calling, united in Christ. My story is proof: there is healing beyond the slogans, and peace beyond the battle lines.

In Christ,
A former feminist—now, just a grateful daughter of God.