Even the best men get away with it.

There’s a kind of anger that runs through many women today—cross-generational, almost silent, but unmistakably present. It doesn’t explode in the streets or shout slogans, but it surfaces at the edges of public discourse, in conversations among peers, in shared glances sparked by a new kind of disappointment. It’s not impulsive or vague: it’s something far deeper, layered, sedimented. It’s the awareness that even in spaces that call themselves progressive, even in relationships that claim to be equal, even next to men who say they’re on our side, the system still works against us.

This anger has a particular shape: it’s often directed at men we love, admire, share ideals, struggles, books, children with. Men who would never do “those things,” who are not violent, who show care. And yet, something doesn’t add up. Because within this social framework, even the best men get away with it. A little more comfortable, a little more protected, a little more central. While we’re left explaining ourselves. Justifying our anger. Carrying, even within the couple or the collective, a labor that has political roots but is still too often treated as a personal matter.

The truth is, much of what passes today as acceptable feminism has been made compatible with capitalist logic and the rhetoric of alliance—so long as it stays polite. So long as it doesn’t disturb too much. So long as it doesn’t threaten the male position, even when it claims to question it. Female anger, especially when it isn’t pedagogical, is still dismissed as counterproductive, divisive, inconvenient. As Sara Ahmed writes, “the figure of the angry feminist is the one who ruins the atmosphere, who breaks the harmony. And so, it’s not violence that’s problematized, but the one who names it” (Living a Feminist Life, 2017).

Many women today live in a state of dissociation: on the one hand, personal relationships with “aware” men; on the other, a constant perception of imbalance. Because care, clarity, emotional vigilance, and the burden of naming the problem are still placed on our shoulders. The concept of emotional labor, as developed by Arlie Hochschild, remains squarely ours: we regulate emotions, maintain harmony, manage others’ fragility. In public debate, we hear again and again that we need more dialogue, more openness, more mutual understanding. But the weight of that listening still falls on us. Patience is still demanded of us. Our anger needs regulation. Theirs is understandable. The double standard hasn’t disappeared—it’s just been dressed up.

In recent years, the term misandry has begun to circulate more widely, often used to delegitimize female anger. The accusation is that women “hate men,” that solidarity is impossible, that feminism has become punitive. But this oversimplification conveniently avoids the harder question: why do so many women—even those in love, respected, privileged—feel a deep resentment toward male subjectivity? It’s not hate. It’s the outcome of a system that has always demanded one-sided understanding. Of a symbolic order that defaulted us to patience and gave them the privilege of choosing.

At the same time, we’re hearing more and more about the “epidemic of lonely men”—a real phenomenon, analyzed in media and sociology (The Atlantic, The Guardian, NYT)—but it’s often framed in purely individual terms: lost roles, emotional fragility, relational insecurity. What’s less discussed is the structural shift beneath this loneliness: a loss of centrality in the relational discourse, no longer guaranteed. Yes, men are lonely. But it’s not our fault. Rather, it’s because they’ve never learned how to exist inside relationships as equals.

Those who speak of sisterhood today should ask themselves: how much energy do we spend daily to make our anger more acceptable? How many times do we withhold the full truth because we know we won’t be believed—or because the man across from us is a “good guy”? And what does it cost us, internally, to keep justifying the system even as we live inside it? So many compromises, so much self-monitoring, that we risk normalizing inequality even as we denounce it. A slow erosion, masked as strategy.

As writer and activist Audre Lorde put it, “the anger of Black women is full of information and energy,” and it is “a legitimate response to oppression.” The same applies to us. This anger is not a mistake. It’s not a communication flaw or a personal weakness. It is a political signal. It is the clearest evidence that we live in a world still structured by male privilege, even when dressed as openness. And as long as feminism has to ask permission to be uncomfortable, as long as our pain must be made palatable so we’re not called hysterical, as long as female intelligence must disguise itself as diplomacy in order to be heard, this anger will remain legitimate. In fact, it will be essential.

This is not about rejecting men. It’s about rejecting the idea that in 2025, we still need to make ourselves likable even when we speak out. It’s not about shutting down dialogue. It’s about stepping out of the trap that insists our language must always be “constructive.” It’s not about hating. It’s about refusing to downplay the anger we feel just because we love them. We can love and still carry the weight of a thousand years of unequal history on our backs. We can recognize tenderness without surrendering clarity. We can remain inside—but not pretend.

We are done pretending. We don’t need to be understood at all costs.
What we need now is for this anger not to be translated, diluted, or explained.
We need it to be recognized for what it is: a precise, social, collective signal.
And we have no intention of apologizing for it.