The female revolution

Revolution. It’s a fitting word to describe the beginning of 2026. In South America, Venezuelans saw the liberation of their government from self-imposed president, Nicolás Maduro, and, as I write this, Iranian citizens are risking their lives in the fight for freedom from the 47-year reign of the Islamic Republic. Revolution also has great relevance when it comes to International Women’s Day. From the early beginnings of the Suffragette movement, British women have known revolution. We’ve come a long way – in biblical times women couldn’t testify before a court; today, women make up 40 per cent of the UK’s barristers. 

The impact of ‘having it all’

I grew up in the 1980s, when actresses like Sigourney Weaver and Linda Hamilton first commanded the screen in action thrillers. I still remember the doyenne of androgynous-wear, Diane Keaton, trying awkwardly to master her sleek grey suits, giant shoulder pads and pencil skirts as she juggled the baby she’d inconveniently inherited from a distant cousin in Baby Boom. I, too, had a working mama in that ‘Sisters are doin’ it for themselves’ era (thank you, Aretha Franklin and Eurythmics). Maybe I identified with that baby a little too much, like an add-on necessity needing to be jostled around my mother’s Manhattan career. My mom had zero bad intentions. I’ve always known, as her only child, that I’m loved as much as a mother could treasure her offspring. This was just the inescapable, reverberating anthem of the era I grew up in. Women could do it all, at home and in the workplace. Nothing would suffer for it because our innate powers make us supernaturally adept at doing all things well. This is a mantra that to this day aggressively continues.

The uncomfortable truth about revolutions is, somebody always gets hurt

The uncomfortable truth about revolutions is, somebody always gets hurt. It’s par for the course, really. I used to resent my mom’s choices. I felt I’d missed out; going to daycare and after school programmes, and having to cook for myself from a young age because of her long work commute, felt like knock-on, negative effects of personal choices she’d made to achieve her dreams. I magnified the bad parts, like vomiting the mac & cheese I was forced to eat every day at nursery, or receiving a bloody nose from a rogue after school worker when I was five. The lovely homes, schools and neighbourhoods I was privileged to grow up in, because of my mom’s ambition and hard work, never rated as high. What would’ve been better, I thought, was a mother who was always there.

So, I grew up and became that mom; the exclusively breastfeeding baby-wearer who only bought organic and turned my nose up at the idea of nurseries (that superwoman complex also exists on the homefront). When my youngest three children were very small, I had the chance to visit my husband on location on a work trip in London (we lived in the States at the time). Immediately, my thoughts jumped to our favourite babysitter. She was great with the kids, but would she be OK for that long? Would they be OK with her? Then, out of the ether, a still, small voice brought a eureka moment. I could ask my mom to stay with them. The kids always loved when she came to visit (we lived four hours apart). What was I afraid of? She’d been a working mom, not some sort of monster. It made obvious sense! 

Mom seemed delighted I’d asked, and that I trusted her enough to be me for five days alone with my kids. My mom wasn’t a worse mother than me, she’d just had different dreams. She’d grown up in the 1950s, in the Jim Crow South, with segregated shops and restaurants and no indoor toilet. She became a mother during a time when it was encouraged for women to pursue a different life for themselves, and she was free to make that decision. 

Taking time to dream

Many years later, in 2020, after months at home in our two-bedroom coach house with a sporadically working husband and our four children, the time had come for me to put my own life choices under the microscope. I sat under a bright skylight, in a tiny tub in my kids’ plain bathroom. Here I was, nearly 40, having insufferable daily arguments with my husband, watching from afar as my home country fell apart from the George Floyd protests. We were all at the mercy of a misunderstood virus that brought the globe to its knees. The routine of my daily grocery shop had become an anxiety-ridden plank walk, due to masking. Who knew the long school run, which I used to complain about, was actually a welcomed escape from the daily droll at home – now that too had been taken away. I’d dreamed of staying at home as a mom, but not with everyone else at home with me 24-7! 

I’d dreamed of staying at home as a mom, but not with everyone else at home with me 24-7!

My faultless picture of at-home perfection began crumbling. My thoughts drifted to my road not travelled. What if I’d never stopped modelling? What if I’d never met my husband? Or had kids? What if I’d just had a career? Would I be living in some sort of penthouse somewhere? With floor-to-ceiling windows? Maybe (or maybe not) pining for a family? Thank God I’ll never find out. We made it out of the pandemic, marriage intact, and, as much as I hated being locked in with my family successively all those months, now we homeschool together. It’s just one of those ironic dreams God wrote for me. 

My daughter is clear, at least for now, that she doesn’t want to be married, be a mom or have anything to do with staying home. Fame and fortune are her modus operandi, even though she doesn’t have social media, and was raised on VeggieTales and missionary stories. Jesus and I are in talks about this as we speak but, for now, that’s her dream. You could say she’s her Mimi’s grandchild. Maybe if I get to be a Mimi [grandmother] someday, my granddaughter will desire to be a homemaker like me. Either way, I’m thankful for the revolutions that have led to our freedom to dream. Not every worldview values it, but our God is a God of dreams and visions. He calls a dream, or longing, fulfilled “a tree of life” (Proverbs 13:12). When we trust in Him, He gives us the desires of our hearts. So, this Mothering Sunday and International Women’s Day, I encourage you to keep dreaming in Jesus.