The Beauty of Her Silence
- Jennifer Hensey
- 8 minutes ago
- 4 min read
The beauty of the tradwife lies in her pristine lace apron catching the morning light, just like the squeaky-clean plates and cutlery she carefully lays out on the table, ready for her hard-working husband to dig into as the smell of sizzling bacon wafts out from under his nose. Yet, beneath the gloss of this nostalgic ideal lies the ugly truth: the ‘happy’ wife rarely leaves the house, is consumed by tiring housework and childcare, and drifts between exhaustion, boredom and emotional collapse.
The rising online obsession with “traditional femininity” conveniently scrolls past the constraints of a 1950s domestic life, glorifying it instead as an effortless, peaceful way of living. This aestheticization of the past isn’t really about history, but rather how nostalgia rebrands submission as beauty. It becomes a form of control disguised as comfort.
Across social media, this vision of “traditional values” has been reborn as something aspirational: not a constraint, but a lifestyle choice. Still, beneath the façade of polished algorithms lies a deeper question: what do these idealised visions of womanhood tell us about the way culture fetishises powerlessness, and why do we find comfort in that fantasy?
Nostalgia can feel like a warm embrace protecting us from the discomfort of change, but it also keeps us from newfound freedoms, privileges and possibilities we’ve fought to gain. In times of contemporary hardship, from the COVID-19 pandemic and the rising cost of living to the growing dominance of AI, it can feel tempting to retreat into visuals of ‘simpler times.’
We mustn’t forget that nostalgia edits out the problems of the past: the inequality, domestic confinement and constant struggle for respect and agency that 1950s post-war advertising of ‘the perfect wife’ urged women to overlook. These roles weren’t idyllic or chosen paths to peace – they were socially and economically enforced. The romanticised traditional values of modesty, moral purity and family devotion were designed to turn oppression into a fantasy of fulfilment. Under the guise of liberation and contentment, it sustained a patriarchal society.
Despite this, young people today remain drawn to the aesthetics of a ‘tradwife’ life, channeling this attraction to social media trends that fuse femininity, control and comfort. From clean girl to coquette aesthetics smothered across TikTok feeds and Pinterest boards, these versions of femininity aren’t loud, messy or bold, but contained and inherently submissive – a woman whose beauty lies in her delicacy and perfectionism. These constrained forms of curated womanhood are packaged as choice, yet they reinforce the same nostalgic fantasy of the domestic and polished woman.
Although the clean girl aesthetic is framed as self-care, there is a sinister undertone to her domestic activities and to her ‘effortless beauty’ as a calm, grounded and disciplined woman. The coquette girl carries a similar unease, her hyper-feminine style and Lolita-esque charm romanticising innocence and fragility. From ribbons and lace to baby pinks, the culture summons tradwife ideals and merges sexualisation with girlish purity, embodying the fetishisation of submissive femininity.
Consumerism feeds this obsession. Beauty and lifestyle brands monetise nostalgia through their marketing of these trending aesthetics. With beauty brands capitalising on ‘no-makeup-makeup’ looks and fashion labels like Brandy Melville embracing the girlish coquette aesthetic, the illusion of returning to a world where femininity was simple and safe is being sold and consumed globally, despite its dependence on an image of female passivity.
Why does culture continue to fetishise women’s powerlessness as aesthetic in this way? The tradwife fantasy is a postfeminist paradox – the contradictory aftermath of feminism. Submission is reframed as empowerment, creating the myth of agency in ‘choosing’ to serve and live a simple life. This supposed message of empowerment in choice is a cloak for consumerist propaganda since it pushes the notion that liberation can be bought through products, such as skincare and cosmetics. Internalised misogyny and patriarchal structures continue to find creative ways to keep women within a box of oppression, and to ensure they continue to prioritise and improve their appearance for aesthetic pleasure.
In this harsh reality, nostalgia operates as an emotional safety net by promising beauty and value in the old, but it does so by reviving hierarchies that once guaranteed order. For example, these resurfacing aesthetics continue to centre on white, middle-class, heterosexual femininity to promote soft, pure and unthreatening personas. Therefore, nostalgia is not a refuge for all, but for those it does cater to, it offers the illusion of safety, certainty and belonging at the expense of progress and equality. It idealises the certainty of the past in contrast to the instability of the ever-changing present.
Behind the beauty and smile of the happy tradwife in her lace apron lies the illusion that order, love and freedom can coexist with silence and self-erasure. There are rules that must be followed when taking on the role of a tradwife, and not all of them are as pretty as her pearls or pressed linens.
What’s really being mourned isn’t lost femininity, but a vanished sense of control, obedience and predictability. The frightening power of nostalgia lies in its ability to transform a history of female suffering into an aestheticized mode of living, making inequality look comforting in hindsight. Perhaps the most dangerous fantasies are the ones that look the most beautiful – polished, delicate and quietly rotten beneath the surface.
Edited by Hania Ahmed, Creative Editor
