I am a stay-at-home mom. Over a year ago, I left my career to care for our three-year-old daughter, who is autistic and needs a lot of support. Recently, I’ve noticed my usually feminist husband has been slamming me in a group chat.
Being a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) wasn’t a role I ever envisioned for myself.
I used to thrive in the bustling world of marketing, surrounded by campaigns and coffee-fueled brainstorming sessions. But that all changed a little over a year ago when my husband, Jake, and I made a life-altering decision. Our daughter, Lily, who is three and autistic, needed more than what her daycare could offer.
Her needs are complex, requiring constant attention and support, and it became clear that one of us needed to be with her full-time.
I won’t lie — saying goodbye to my career was one of the hardest things I’ve done. I miss the independence of earning my own money and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done. But here I am, filling my days with meal planning, cooking, and baking.
I’ve found joy in these tasks, and experimenting in the kitchen has become my new canvas for creativity.
Our backyard has transformed into a small garden sanctuary under my care, and I handle the majority of the cleaning. Jake does his fair share too; he’s hands-on when it comes to chores and parenting whenever he’s home. We’ve always operated as a team, shunning traditional gender roles, or at least that’s what I thought until last week.
It was just another Thursday, and I was vacuuming Jake’s home office while he was at work.
It’s a space filled with tech gadgets and piles of paperwork, typical for a software developer. His computer screen caught my eye — it was still on, glowing softly against the dim light of the room. He usually left it on by accident, but what I saw next was no accident.
His Twitter feed was open, and I froze when I saw the hashtag #tradwife attached to a tweet.
Confusion washed over me as I read the post. It boasted about the joys of having a traditional wife who takes pride in her domestic roles. Attached was a photo of me, pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven, looking every bit the part of a 1950s housewife.
My stomach churned as I scrolled through more posts. There I was again, gardening and reading to Lily, our faces thankfully hidden.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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