Why Women Forgive What Men Repeat
I have realized, in my romanticizing, feminine gaze, that I put so much pressure on myself. I have to be the perfect woman, present myself beautifully, remain rooted in a morsel of a garden—yet my sun can stray. My sun can be perfectly imperfect. Make mistakes. My sun has room to shine and grow, but I don't allow myself that much grace. We don't allow ourselves that much grace.
Romance was never the pinnacle of love. Romance is exactly what it is. Romance. A glazed chiffon over hideous polyester. Caramel coloring the mud. It was curated meticulously by European women. The tall, dark, and broody fellow was undeniably real, but the love polished in novels was not. They were fantasies. Coping mechanisms for women forbidden to a time of soulless transactions. Their “lives” weren’t provided out of love—but by economics; hierarchy. Power. It was all a business.
In those novels, women could write feelings their “lovers” would never confess. She could make him whoever she wanted him to be, because he would never say or deny it. She was auctioned, a vessel in the marketplace, and love itself was transactional—but through writing, she could feel worthy. She could imagine devotion where none existed. She could forgive a sun that strayed, even as she chastised herself for missteps, because her own errors were always viewed as lack, never intention.
This is why a woman’s romance outshines a man’s: she wrote for survival. To cope. To bear the objective space she was meant to occupy. She planted feelings in the hollows of her life, because that was all she had of worth.
If we look at all of our media—cinema, literature, even music—mentally deadly romance is caressed with a honey-glossed satin bow. We are conditioned from an early age, not solely through politics and ethical beliefs, but everything we are given to consume. But this is not just a European phenomenon. It is universal. From Asian dramas to Western films, women have been the piners. The ones with the golden pen, rewriting the ugly truth into something beautiful. And, what is it for us now? Compared to them, we are free. Our encounters, while possible, are no longer a business concept. We can essentially choose who and how to love? So why do many of us still sink to emotional peril?
It dates back to our European survivalists. The girls who wanted to beautify the corrupt. To make hell a little bit more durable. Given this, abuse, one-sided love, and the notion that our bodies determine our worth can feel “rewarding” when framed in gold or rewritten through narrative.We soften the mind of the perpetrator. Give him a reason when he has none. Grant him room to dig for forgiveness, even when he can't acknowledge any wrong.
We forgive because we have been groomed to rewrite the terrors of a world that offered no fair alternative.
