The ones who never learned the art of fading into wallpaper.
Who moved through rooms and gravity bent towards them, leaving aftershocks of unease and unwilling fascination.
The ones who made small talk feel like an unnecessary translation — not because they couldn’t speak the language, but because they didn’t believe in wasting breath.
This isn’t nostalgia for cruelty. It’s mourning for women who moved through the world without recoiling — who never asked if they were too much, because they’d already clocked that the world was too little.
They didn’t “do” authenticity. They were the blueprint — raw as wind, wild as instinct, immune to polish. They didn’t broadcast their boldness. They just never thought to conceal it.
I think about Elaine Stritch: white men’s shirt, bare legs, no pants ever, because pants were a nuisance and rehearsal was at 10. Sweating under stage lights, declaring she had all the disadvantages required for success.
She wasn’t trying to say anything. She was hot. She was tired. She had rehearsal. The revolution was incidental, which is why it worked.
I think about Eartha Kitt, who once said, “I wouldn’t bother to describe me. I’m Eartha Kitt.”
Not arrogance. Precision.
That’s what power sounds like when it doesn’t justify.
These women didn’t flash their strength like a weapon. They wore it like skin. Lauren Bacall slouched like she’d already heard your best line and was unimpressed. Barbara Stanwyck sliced through dialogue with the economy of someone who charged by the syllable.
Their elegance wasn’t engineered. It was architectural. Bone and fabric. Steel and smoke. A shoulder line like a dare. A cigarette like a period at the end of a sentence no one else was brave enough to write.
They scared people breathless.
“Difficult” came first. “Brilliant” came second.
Always together. Thunder, then lightning.
I’m not asking to bring back cruelty. But somewhere between learning how to be liked and forgetting how to be feared, some of us have misplaced something sacred: Taking up space without flinching. The ability to be unforgettable without footnotes.
These women weren’t known for being warm. Or safe harbors. They were weather — unpredictable, electric, the kind that changes your plans and maybe your life.
They didn’t soften their voices for conference calls. They didn’t trail off into question marks. They didn’t say “sorry” unless they meant it, and they rarely did.
I miss that. The gravity. The bite.
The audacity of silence held a second too long.
The refusal to pad a sharp thought in bubble wrap.
I long for women who don’t begin every opinion with “I could be wrong but…”
(And yes, I’m dragging myself here — a habitual apologizer.)
Bring back the bitch.
Not the meme.
Not the empowerment tee in bubblegum pink.
Not the sanitized archetype.
I mean the woman who wasn’t asking for a single thing. Not permission. Not reassurance. Not even a reaction.
She lived like her own reflection was the only critic worth answering to, and the rest of us were lucky just to get a glimpse.
But to be honest, we don’t need to resurrect her.
She didn’t vanish. She didn’t fade. I just looked away long enough to convince myself she was gone.
It’s easier that way — easier to tell myself the era of bitches is over, than to admit I benched myself. Easier to mourn their disappearance than question my own dilution.
I wasn’t looking for her.
I was too busy asking for forgiveness.
Too busy rehearsing emails, workshopping text messages, overthinking facial expressions.
Too busy trying to be pleasant. Digestible. Reasonably cool but not threatening. I wasn’t just smoothing rough spots. I took a belt sander to the flesh and called it refinement.
I acted like “bitch” was a bad word, when honestly? I just didn’t have the guts.
I said she was gone, but what I meant was: I started charging myself rent for every inch of space I occupied.
I knew better. And I still played small.
I turned myself into a grinning caricature because somewhere along the way, I mistook appeasement for safety.
What a betrayal.
What a disappointment.
I had her voice echoing in my ribs.
I inherited a roar and settled for claps.
I didn’t lose her.
I abandoned her.
I abandoned myself.
Because this bitch? She’s still out there.
Ripping open a bag of chips in the checkout line.
Wearing lipstick to take out the trash.
Tipping in cash and slinking away.
Buying expensive shoes and a 7-Eleven hot dog.
She isn’t interested in being understood.
She isn’t waiting to be invited.
She doesn’t need your feedback.
She doesn’t mellow herself for the sake of the room. The room adjusts. Or it doesn’t. Either way, she says what needs saying and leaves before dessert.
She’s not optimizing.
She’s not onboarding.
She’s not branding.
She’s just being.
And I could’ve joined her at any time.
I just didn’t.
Because I wanted the quiet approval of being liked more than the loud, unruly freedom of being myself.
She didn’t break the mold.
She sneered at it and walked away.
The mold stayed behind, waiting for its next pretty prisoner.
But she’s still here. Thank God.
You can spot her — gold hoops like planets, a laugh that arrives too early and leaves too late, lingering at the dive bar long after the jukebox cuts out.
So, no — the question isn’t “Where did she go?”
The question is: When did I forget that fire doesn’t ask for permission before it burns?
Here’s to the Bygone Bitch.
You can’t be history when you’re always.
She was the original temperature check.
And I’ve been showing up lukewarm.
P.S. This ode wouldn’t exist without
and her latest, brilliant Daily Drip. She’s a modern Bygone Bitch — biting, dazzling, and smarter than your algorithm. Go subscribe.
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Excuse me while I put on lipstick to take out the trash. Brilliant, as always, my dear.
Fuck yes Caroline. This is EXACTLY what I wanted to hear today.