Recently, someone called me a TERF.
The acronym stands for “trans-exclusionary radical feminist.” I had to laugh a little because I am not even sure I am a feminist.
Like most women, I benefit from rights secured by women who came before me. I can own property, vote, run businesses, and build a life that would have been difficult for many of my female ancestors. For that, I am grateful.
At the same time, I have spent much of my adult life questioning aspects of modern feminism. I have written extensively about motherhood, fertility, family, and the ways our culture sometimes devalues the very things that make civilization possible. If feminism means believing women deserve dignity and equal protection under the law, then of course I support that. Beyond that, I am not always sure where I fit.
What I do know is that I do not believe men can become women.
Apparently, that belief is enough to earn the label TERF.
There is even a website dedicated to arguing that TERF should be understood as a slur. Whether it technically qualifies as one is less interesting to me than the larger question: Why are so many ordinary women suddenly finding themselves labeled radical for believing something that was considered self-evident for most of human history?
The older I get, the more I wonder how many people quietly agree with some of these concerns but never say so out loud. I do not think most are motivated by hatred. If anything, I suspect the opposite is true. They are trying to be kind. They see someone struggling, and their instinct is to be compassionate.
As a mother, I think about this through the lens of food. If one of my children developed fatty liver disease at 10 years old and continued begging me for soda, candy, and ultra-processed snacks, it would not be compassionate for me to give them whatever they wanted simply because they wanted it. Most parents understand that instinctively. My child might sincerely desire those foods. They might become angry when I say no. They might insist that I do not understand.
None of that changes my responsibility.
Love requires me to think beyond today’s feelings and consider tomorrow’s consequences. My job is not to affirm every desire. My job is to guide.
That same principle has shaped the way I think about many forms of human suffering. As a teenager, I struggled with an eating disorder. Looking back, I cannot imagine adults responding by affirming my distorted perception of reality. If I believed I was overweight when I was dangerously thin, no caring adult would have encouraged that belief simply because it felt real to me.
The suffering was real. The conclusion was not.
I do not doubt that some people experience profound distress about their bodies. Human beings struggle in countless ways. We struggle with anxiety, depression, addiction, trauma, eating disorders, and all sorts of internal conflicts. The suffering is real. What I question is whether affirming every conclusion a person reaches about that suffering is necessarily the same thing as helping that person.
Perhaps the larger question is whether our culture has become so uncomfortable with discomfort that we now treat discomfort itself as evidence that something has gone wrong.
We seem increasingly unwilling to accept that some parts of the human experience are difficult. Anxiety, grief, loneliness, heartbreak, awkwardness, uncertainty, and the challenges of growing up have always been part of life. That does not mean people should suffer unnecessarily, nor does it mean there is no place for medicine. But we often seem to move immediately toward eliminating discomfort before asking whether it might have something to teach us.
Puberty, growing up, and learning who you are can all be uncomfortable. I remember what it felt like to move from a child’s body into a woman’s body. The changes felt strange. There were moments when I did not feel entirely at home in my own skin. Looking back, I realize that was part of becoming an adult, not evidence that I had been born in the wrong body.
As a society, we increasingly look for pharmaceutical, surgical, or technological solutions to experiences that previous generations often understood as part of being human. Sometimes those interventions help. Sometimes they do not. But I think we should at least be willing to ask whether every discomfort requires a remedy, or whether some discomforts are part of growth itself.
I also struggle with the increasingly common phrase “assigned at birth.” A baby’s sex is not assigned the way a teacher assigns homework. It is observed. Intersex conditions exist and deserve compassion and medical care, but they are rare exceptions and not what most people are talking about when discussing gender identity.
For most of my life, sex and gender referred to the same thing. I understand many people now use those words differently. They are free to do so. I am equally free to disagree.
What fascinates me is not disagreement itself. Human beings have always disagreed. What fascinates me is the expectation that disagreement has become unacceptable.
There is something strange about a man declaring himself a woman and then demanding that women see him exactly as he sees himself. There is something stranger still about being told that failing to agree is hateful. At times, it feels less like progress and more like a new form of misogyny.
Women spent generations fighting to be recognized as a distinct category with distinct experiences. We fought to have our vulnerabilities, strengths, and realities acknowledged. Now, we are increasingly told that the category itself is fluid and that women must accept anyone who claims membership within it. I find myself wondering when women became the only group expected to surrender the right to define ourselves.
I do not write that with anger. I have no desire to mock anyone or deny anyone basic dignity. Every person deserves kindness, respect, and recognition of their humanity. My disagreement is not rooted in contempt. In many ways, it comes from the same place as my concern for a child struggling with an eating disorder, an addiction, or any other condition that causes suffering.
Humans are unique in our ability to separate ourselves from biological realities. Sometimes that ability allows us to create extraordinary things. Sometimes it allows us to convince ourselves that feelings are more important than reality.
The question I keep coming back to is whether agreement is always the most loving response. As women, many of us are naturally inclined toward empathy. We smooth over conflict. We try to make people feel included. We absorb tension. We carry relationships. Those instincts help us raise children and build communities.
They are beautiful qualities. But I wonder whether some of us have become so committed to being kind that we have stopped asking whether what we are affirming is actually true. I suspect there are many women who remain silent because they genuinely do not want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I understand that instinct because I feel it, too.
The question is not whether we should be compassionate. We should.
The question is whether compassion requires agreement.
How much can a culture drift when millions of people stay silent out of politeness? How many things are accepted not because people believe them, but because they fear the social consequences of saying otherwise?
I do not know the answers. I do know that every mother eventually learns that love sometimes requires guidance, correction, and honesty. A parent who never says no is not demonstrating compassion. A parent who never tells the truth is not demonstrating love.
Truth without compassion can become cruelty. Compassion without truth can lead us almost anywhere.
If that makes me a TERF, then perhaps the more interesting question is not whether the label fits. Perhaps the more interesting question is why so many ordinary women are suddenly finding themselves called radical for believing what they can plainly see with their own eyes.
