The tyranny of relatability: a manifesto against a boring ideal

The Tyranny of 'Relatability': A Manifesto Against a Boring Ideal

There is a word that has, in recent years, crept into our cultural lexicon like a slow, odorless gas, quietly suffocating the potential of interesting women everywhere. That word is "relatable."

It is presented as a virtue, a democratic ideal. We demand it of our female politicians, our CEOs, our artists, our thought leaders. We ask, “But is she relatable?” before we ask, “Is she brilliant?” We crave the story of the powerful woman who is, in the end, “just like us.” The duchess who wears Zara. The CEO who admits she’s a “hot mess.” The philosopher who posts unfiltered photos of herself eating pizza in sweatpants. We consume these moments as proof of her humility, a comforting assurance that despite her ascent, she has not forgotten her place among the common folk.

I have come to believe that this obsession with relatability is not a harmless desire for authenticity. It is a trap. It is the most insidious and effective tool of modern patriarchy, a silken cage masquerading as a compliment. It is a demand for mediocrity, a subtle but relentless pressure on women of substance to sand down their sharp edges, to dim their own light, and to reassuringly perform a version of themselves that is smaller, simpler, and less threatening to the status quo. It is a modern, corporate-friendly translation of the same ancient fear that powered the ducking stool.

Relatability, in its current usage, is not a synonym for empathy or humanity. It is a synonym for conformity. It is a demand that a woman’s life, no matter how extraordinary, be easily digestible for a mass audience. It asks the eagle to pretend it is a sparrow, for the comfort of the sparrows. I am no longer interested in this performance. I believe the relentless pursuit of being “relatable” is a betrayal of one’s own potential, and it is time we named it for what it is: the tyranny of a boring ideal.

I. The Anchor of Mediocrity

The core function of the “relatability” demand is to act as a gravitational anchor, tethering exceptional women to a familiar, terrestrial plane. A woman who has dedicated two decades of her life to mastering particle physics is asked not about the sublime beauty of quarks, but about her work-life balance. A woman who has built a billion-dollar company from a single idea is praised not for her ruthless vision, but for admitting she struggles with imposter syndrome. A woman who has penned a novel that redefines a genre is celebrated for tweeting about her struggles with laundry.

These are not malicious acts in isolation. But in aggregate, they create a powerful narrative: your achievements are interesting, but your flaws are what make you lovable. Your power is impressive, but your performance of powerlessness is what makes you safe. The unspoken bargain is that we will tolerate your excellence, so long as you periodically abase yourself with a public performance of charming imperfection. This transforms the magnificent, terrifying exception into a manageable, comfortable rule.

This creates a perverse incentive. Instead of striving for pure, unadulterated excellence—for the kind of incandescent talent that can feel alienating in its brilliance—ambitious women are encouraged to curate a careful portfolio of endearing, “relatable” flaws. We are taught to weaponize our anxieties, to market our insecurities, and to treat our vulnerabilities not as private facets of our humanity, but as public-facing assets to be deployed for brand management.

The woman who feels no imposter syndrome—the woman who knows, deep in her bones, that she is exactly as brilliant and capable as her résumé suggests—learns that it is wise to pretend she does. The woman whose ambition is a clean, hot fire, who feels no guilt or conflict about her own drive, learns to speak of it as a kind of charmingly neurotic affliction. We are being asked to apologize for our own strength, and to do it with a self-deprecating smile. This is not a recipe for greatness. It is a blueprint for a lifetime of playing small. It is the slow, voluntary death of the exceptional.

II. A Historical Inheritance of Fear

This demand for relatability is not a new phenomenon; it is merely the latest iteration of a very old fear. Societies have always been profoundly uncomfortable with the woman who does not fit neatly into a domesticable role. The methods of suppression simply evolve to match the aesthetics of the era.

In centuries past, the unrelatable woman—the one who lived alone, who understood herbal remedies, who possessed a sharp tongue or an unnerving intellect—was not called “unrelatable.” She was called a witch. The trials at Salem and across Europe were, at their core, a violent reaction to female sovereignty. The crime was not consorting with the devil; the crime was being a woman who was self-sufficient, who did not require the validation or protection of the patriarchal structure. Her existence was a quiet rebellion, and for that, she had to be demonized and destroyed. The ducking stool and the pyre were society’s brutal tools for enforcing conformity.

By the 19th century, the methods became more clinical. The unrelatable woman—the one who felt passion too deeply, who wrote with too much fervor, who chafed against the suffocating confines of the domestic sphere—was not called a witch. She was diagnosed with hysteria. Her ambition, her creativity, her righteous anger were reframed as symptoms of a disordered womb. The "rest cure" was prescribed, a sentence of crushing boredom and intellectual starvation designed to sand down her edges and return her to a state of placid, decorative docility. It was a medicalized campaign against the female soul.

Today, the tools are softer, deployed not by inquisitors or doctors, but by the culture itself. We have focus groups and social media metrics. We don't burn the unrelatable woman at the stake; we simply unfollow her. We don't commit her to an asylum; we brand her as "difficult" or "cold" or, worst of all, "out of touch." The impulse remains identical: to neutralize the threat of the woman who operates under her own authority. The tyranny of "relatability" is just the old fear dressed up in the friendly, accessible language of corporate human resources. It is a form of psychological containment, all the more effective because we are encouraged to enforce it upon ourselves.

III. A Rejection of the Cult of the Average

What is it we are truly afraid of in the unrelatable woman? I suspect it is the same thing we fear in a sheer rock face, a tempestuous sea, or a truly sovereign state: a force that does not require our approval to exist. A woman who is not trying to be liked, but is simply trying to be excellent, is a profoundly unsettling figure. She is a mirror that reflects our own compromises back at us. Her discipline exposes our lack of it. Her clarity of purpose highlights our own diffusion.

The truly unrelatable woman is not unkind or inhumane. On the contrary. She might be a devoted friend, a passionate lover, a loyal daughter. But her inner world, her core motivations, are not easily accessible. She is not an open-book, YA novel. She is a dense, historical text, rich with footnotes and requiring effort to understand. She has cultivated a private, inner sanctum of thought, ambition, and desire that is not for public consumption. She has built an empire of the self that does not grant visas to just anyone. Her friendship is a privilege, not a right. Her trust is a walled garden, not a public park.

This is the woman I am interested in. The woman who would rather be respected than liked. The woman who inspires not cozy recognition, but a kind of breathtaking awe. Think of the great, unapologetic women of history and art. Did anyone ask if Catherine the Great was “relatable”? Did they demand that Joan of Arc be more of a “hot mess”? Was Coco Chanel’s primary concern whether she was accessible to the masses? The question itself would have been absurd. Their power was predicated on their difference, on the sacred, unbridgeable distance between themselves and the ordinary. Their legacy is not one of being understood by everyone, but of being unforgettable to history.

To demand relatability from a woman of consequence is an act of profound disrespect. It is an attempt to domesticate a wolf, to persuade a comet to behave like a streetlamp. It is a request for her to betray the very qualities that make her magnificent. It asks her to choose to be understood over the imperative to be true.

IV. A Portrait of the Formidable Woman

Let us, then, paint a portrait of the alternative. If we cast off the tyranny of the relatable, what ideal rises in its place? It is the ideal of the formidable woman.

The formidable woman does not market her insecurities; she metabolizes them into fuel. Her ambition is not a charming quirk; it is the very architecture of her soul. She does not seek consensus for her decisions; she cultivates the quiet, unshakeable authority of her own counsel. Her warmth is not a tool for social lubrication; it is a fire she reserves for those she deems worthy of her heat.

Her posture is one of purpose. Her gaze is direct, not because it is aggressive, but because it is focused. Her silence is as eloquent as her speech, because it is born of thought, not of fear. She is not a gentle harbor, designed for the comfort of all ships. She is a deep-water port, built for warships and heavy cargo, a place of industry and consequence.

She reads. Not just the headlines, but history, philosophy, poetry. She builds an intellectual arsenal that makes her a dangerous conversationalist and an invaluable ally. She cultivates beauty not as an obligation, but as a discipline and an art form, a way of bringing order and grace to the world. She understands that elegance is a form of power.

She does not apologize for the space she occupies, for the sound of her own voice, for the weight of her own opinion. She has made a sacred pact with her own potential, and she will not break it for the comfort of others. She is, in short, a woman who has decided to become the hero of her own story, not a supporting character in someone else’s.

I, for one, will no longer make the choice to be small for the sake of being seen. The cage of relatability is unlocked. It has always been unlocked. It is time to walk out. I am not here to be relatable. I am here to be formidable. And I invite you to consider the possibility that the two are, and have always been, mutually exclusive. Join me.