the voice in my head is a man.

how men became the centre of my inner monologue.

I’m a completely different person when no one’s watching. On the outside, I’m a liberal feminist – outspoken, opinionated, unafraid to call things out. But inside? There’s a voice. One that tells me to shave every inch of hair off my body to be more ‘desirable’. A voice I hate, but always listen to. As much as it perturbs me to admit, I do centre men and deep down, pride myself on male validation.

I become a stranger to myself when I have a crush on a man; I pride myself on my independence, yet suddenly I’m reciting F1 stats and waking up at 4 am to watch cars drive laps around a circuit in Australia. I won’t even mention Taylor Swift, afraid he’ll stop liking me – even though she’s been my most-played artist for five years in a row and there’s a cardboard cut-out of her in my bedroom. So, what is it about men that makes us feel an abundance of pressure to be desired.

“Men always use that don’t they? As their defining compliment. She’s a Cool Girl. Cool Girl is hot. Cool Girl is game. Cool Girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrin loving manner and then presents her mouth for fucking.”

(Gone Girl)

The quintessential ‘Cool Girl’ – as Amy Dunne calls her – is so laid-back, low-maintenance, and effortlessly hot. She doesn’t nag, doesn’t care too much, and definitely doesn’t ask for anything. Men want to be the sun in a woman’s galaxy – the thing everything orbits – but only if she makes it look easy. So, we downplay our feelings, our emotions, our personality. And eventually, when the man realises Cool Girl doesn’t exist, he leaves – and we feel the brunt of that absence. That dismissal decimates our self-worth.

But this need to please – it’s not new.

The voice in my head is inherited.

I used to be a carefree little girl who would go to the shops in my Princess Belle dress because I didn’t want to take it off. I never thought twice about other people’s opinions. Then one day in primary school I started sitting up straighter when sitting next to a boy, giggling more even though it was fake just to make him think I found him funny, letting him borrow my favourite pencils so he’d like me. The voice was always there – quiet but growing. Yes, the voice comes from society and men themselves, but those insecurities we gain growing up project their ideals. Any girl will tell you you’re pretty, but hearing it from a man hits deeper; because we’ve been taught that we aren’t desirable until they say we are.

Admitting this – even just once – feels like admitting defeat.

There’s a pressure today to be the perfect woman – not to men solely, but to women too. We must support all women, whether they’re right or wrong, yet this universal girl code eradicated itself during the rise of social media. Sometimes I do feel more stressed about appealing to a woman than a man, because of the paradox of modern feminism: We must reject male validation, but also be desirable. Be empowered, but not attention-seeking. Support other women, but somehow still be better than them. Slip up, and you’re not just making a mistake – you’re ‘setting women back’ – a phrase we’ve become too comfortable using.

This isn’t to say the feminist movement isn’t vital or respected – I’ve been a proud follower for a while – but somehow along the way, feminism stopped being about just equality, and started putting pressure on women to be perfect. To have no flaws, and never give into male validation. How easy is it though to switch off the voice that taught me how to live?

I do get in my head about how much I change about myself when I’m in a new talking stage. Do we ever get that innocent girl who walked around getting milk and bread in her dress and tiara back? – or is she lost forever? There’s been so many times in my life where I’ve done something simply because a man asked me to, not because I wanted to do it first. As much as everyone hated Cassie in season 2 of Euphoria, I did feel a deep connection to her desire to appeal to Nate. She woke up at 4 am every morning to make sure she looked perfect, but he never appreciated her or even noticed her.

Think about how many times you’ve gotten ready with that giddy feeling in your stomach about how someone will react to how good you will look, spending hours thinking about them – just for them to not bat an eyelid. When I look back on my younger self, sending photos of herself and feeling dirty, I feel a soft sadness for how little she demanded for herself. Then I look at myself currently, as I text ‘Lando Norris just took pole,’ and wonder if I’ve ever changed.

The voice in my head is a man.

But maybe, only because I’ve given up so many past versions of myself that I no longer have the backbone to think for myself.

I’ve lost myself in appealing to men.