An Open Letter to the Masculine Collective

I am angry. Not at any one man, not at the fathers, brothers, or friends who live in my heart. My anger is not personal. It is ancestral. It is aimed at the collective force of the masculine that has brainwashed women into believing that shrinking themselves is safety, that silence is virtue, and that submission is love.

I am angry at how you trained us to be grateful for crumbs. At how you normalized our exclusion, mocked our intuition, and praised our compliance. I am angry that we inherited a world where women had to barter away their wholeness just to be “respected.”

I am angry because it worked. You taught us to smile when we wanted to scream, to nod when we knew better, to hide our genius so your egos could stay comfortable. You taught us to second-guess our instincts, to apologize for our brilliance, to bend our backs until we forgot what it felt like to stand tall.

You taught us another cruel lesson too: how to turn on one another. You whispered comparisons; you set impossible standards; you pointed us at each other until we forgot who we really were. For so long we chased scraps of approval, measuring ourselves against sisters instead of remembering the power of our shared femininity. You pitted us until solidarity felt like a risk and competition felt like survival. That was never accidental — it was a strategy to keep us small, scattered, and easier to govern.

You punish us by making our spaces emotionally unsafe. Home, work, community — all the places where we should breathe — become arenas where a misstep is weaponized, where vulnerability is ammunition, where we are taught to carry our wounds alone. You threaten us by removing your provision and protection, by turning resources and safety into bargaining chips. You make it plain: follow the system, or lose the roof, the job, the ally, the comfort. You make obedience feel like life insurance.

How dare you? How dare you twist our survival into leverage, our loyalty into weakness, our trust into tools of control? How dare you punish us for the very qualities that keep humanity alive — our intuition, our tenderness, our power to create and sustain?

But this is not the story I accept for myself. Healing broke the spell. As I came back to my body, my voice, and my truth, I remembered what the feminine actually is: not fragile softness but fierce, relational power — the capacity to create, to hold, to forgive, to fight, to birth new worlds. I remembered that my tenderness is a field of force, and my intuition is a weapon of clarity. I remembered that together, women are an unstoppered tide.

I am not begging you to change. I will not waste my breath explaining the ethics or sending you lessons you don’t want to hear. I am not here to domesticate your guilt or rewrite centuries of conditioning for your comfort. I am delivering a proclamation:

The system will change.

It has been growing in silence — in whispered alliances, in late-night networks of mutual aid, in women teaching one another how to survive and thrive without your permission. It has grown because survival demanded secrecy. It has matured because love demanded fidelity. When it rises, it will not come asking for favors. It will demand a new operating code: one where power is shared, where intuition is honored, where emotional safety is non-negotiable.

When that time comes you will be forced to look inward. You will be asked to hold your own tender places, to grieve what you have been taught to hide, to step into accountability instead of defensiveness. You will be asked to cherish the feminine in yourself — curiosity, receptivity, the courage to feel — and to stand beside women as equals, not overseers.

This is not a threat. It is a promise. You have the choice to resist and cling to a brittle throne made of fear, or to stand in a truer, braver way that enlarges every life in your orbit.

I am angry. I am healed. I am awake. I will not stop until the rules that made us tiptoe are rewritten — until the tenderness and the rage can live alongside each other and until women no longer have to trade pieces of themselves to survive.

With sacred rage and relentless love,

COACH DANICA

Image taken from a scene in Castlevania. © Konami Digital Entertainment Co., Ltd.