the leftist women screwing the world in a nutshell
You're called Camille, you're 22 years old, and you're a free and strong woman.
You read Simone de Beauvoir in high school, watched Sex and the City on your divorced mom's couch, and the sociology teacher with a Mireille Mathieu haircut explained to you that motherhood was a trap set by the patriarchy.
To you, marriage is a medieval institution invented by frustrated Catholics to chain women to a sink. (Kouisine)
You spent your twenties "living your best life": Aperol on the terrace with a cigarette dangling from your lips, a butterfly tattoo on your forearm and an infinity symbol on your ankle.
Tinder, weekend in Lisbon, different guys every week because above all, you mustn't get attached.
To you, the church is bullshit. You've got your head screwed on straight: you head off to Peru for an ayahuasca ceremony with a shaman who’s actually named Kevin and sells sophrology courses on Podia for €297.
You came back with a wooden bead bracelet and the certainty that true spirituality is the vibrations of amethyst stones on your chakras in a yoga studio in Oberkampf.
At 29, you're promoted to "Senior Account Manager" in digital marketing. You celebrate with your girlfriends: you treat yourselves to a silent Buddhist retreat in Bali, but really you spend four days taking Instagram photos in front of temples with the caption "inner peace" by day and getting introspected inside-out by Dylan and his buddies after a few Jack Fire apple shots at night.
At 31, you're invited to your cousin Marine's wedding in a church.
Marine, who didn't go to college, who got married "too young" to a "basic" guy and to whom you used to say "enjoy life before you lock yourself away."
She’s glowing, her husband looks at her like she invented oxygen.
During the ceremony, you catch yourself bawling, but you blame it on your last micro-dosing.
You're at the back in an H&M dress with a Hinge guy who's scrolling TikTok during the father's speech.
At 33: your gynecologist tells you your ovarian reserve is "declining." You ask if it's serious: she smiles back like a funeral home receptionist.
On the way home, you place your moonstone on your belly hoping the vibrations will kickstart the engine. It doesn't work. You freeze your eggs at 35.
You tell yourself you've hacked the system and science gives you another solid ten years to hit the bar circuit and get laid on a whim.
At 37, you're on Bumble. Guys your age are matching with 25-year-olds.
You've lowered your standards three times, from "1m85 architect who loves to travel" to "emotionally stable and no fish-holding photos."
Weekends, you burn palo santo in your 30m² apartment while eating ramen with Marcel, a ginger cat adopted from the SPA "temporarily."Marcel's on his third cat tree, and you're on your third glass of white.
At 39, you open Instagram. Marine's posting pics of her third kid.
Your ex married a 24-year-old Colombian who makes him cornmeal empanadas and calls him papi.
Your girlfriend's doing IVF solo because "I don't need a man to be a mom."The same magazines that headlined "30 is the new 20" now scream "Freezing your eggs: the feminist choice."
The shaman Kevin's now selling "fertility ceremonies" for €1500.
No one told you freedom has an expiration date.
No one told you biology isn't up for negotiation.
No one told you Sex and the City was fiction and that Sarah Jessica Parker had her last kid via surrogate.
But you don't give a damn—at 40, with the wilted butterfly tattoo, you've just signed up for the Green Party.
Having kids in 2026 is irresponsible: it ramps up CO2 and kills penguins by boiling the oceans.
You're called Camille, you're 22 years old, and you're a free and strong woman.
You read Simone de Beauvoir in high school, watched Sex and the City on your divorced mom's couch, and the sociology teacher with a Mireille Mathieu haircut explained to you that motherhood was a trap set by the patriarchy.
To you, marriage is a medieval institution invented by frustrated Catholics to chain women to a sink. (Kouisine)
You spent your twenties "living your best life": Aperol on the terrace with a cigarette dangling from your lips, a butterfly tattoo on your forearm and an infinity symbol on your ankle.
Tinder, weekend in Lisbon, different guys every week because above all, you mustn't get attached.
To you, the church is bullshit. You've got your head screwed on straight: you head off to Peru for an ayahuasca ceremony with a shaman who’s actually named Kevin and sells sophrology courses on Podia for €297.
You came back with a wooden bead bracelet and the certainty that true spirituality is the vibrations of amethyst stones on your chakras in a yoga studio in Oberkampf.
At 29, you're promoted to "Senior Account Manager" in digital marketing. You celebrate with your girlfriends: you treat yourselves to a silent Buddhist retreat in Bali, but really you spend four days taking Instagram photos in front of temples with the caption "inner peace" by day and getting introspected inside-out by Dylan and his buddies after a few Jack Fire apple shots at night.
At 31, you're invited to your cousin Marine's wedding in a church.
Marine, who didn't go to college, who got married "too young" to a "basic" guy and to whom you used to say "enjoy life before you lock yourself away."
She’s glowing, her husband looks at her like she invented oxygen.
During the ceremony, you catch yourself bawling, but you blame it on your last micro-dosing.
You're at the back in an H&M dress with a Hinge guy who's scrolling TikTok during the father's speech.
At 33: your gynecologist tells you your ovarian reserve is "declining." You ask if it's serious: she smiles back like a funeral home receptionist.
On the way home, you place your moonstone on your belly hoping the vibrations will kickstart the engine. It doesn't work. You freeze your eggs at 35.
You tell yourself you've hacked the system and science gives you another solid ten years to hit the bar circuit and get laid on a whim.
At 37, you're on Bumble. Guys your age are matching with 25-year-olds.
You've lowered your standards three times, from "1m85 architect who loves to travel" to "emotionally stable and no fish-holding photos."
Weekends, you burn palo santo in your 30m² apartment while eating ramen with Marcel, a ginger cat adopted from the SPA "temporarily."Marcel's on his third cat tree, and you're on your third glass of white.
At 39, you open Instagram. Marine's posting pics of her third kid.
Your ex married a 24-year-old Colombian who makes him cornmeal empanadas and calls him papi.
Your girlfriend's doing IVF solo because "I don't need a man to be a mom."The same magazines that headlined "30 is the new 20" now scream "Freezing your eggs: the feminist choice."
The shaman Kevin's now selling "fertility ceremonies" for €1500.
No one told you freedom has an expiration date.
No one told you biology isn't up for negotiation.
No one told you Sex and the City was fiction and that Sarah Jessica Parker had her last kid via surrogate.
But you don't give a damn—at 40, with the wilted butterfly tattoo, you've just signed up for the Green Party.
Having kids in 2026 is irresponsible: it ramps up CO2 and kills penguins by boiling the oceans.
