Feminist Rage Fatigue: Living Through Our Own Handmaid’s Tale

I watched the latest episode of The Handmaid’s Tale this week. I won’t spoil it—don’t worry. But I will say this: it left me staring at the screen long after the credits rolled, the weight of something familiar pressing down on my chest. Not just grief. Not just anger. But something heavier. A tiredness that feels like it’s soaked into my bones.

A kind of exhaustion I’ve come to recognize: feminist rage fatigue.

It’s the fatigue that builds when you’ve spent years—maybe a lifetime—carrying rage that has nowhere to go. Rage at policies that strip us of autonomy. Rage at watching history repeat itself, only more brazenly. Rage at being told—again and again—that our pain is political, our grief is dramatic, our anger is unattractive.

The Handmaid’s Tale is fiction. I know that. But it’s also a mirror, and sometimes the reflection is too close for comfort. You don’t need a scarlet cloak and white bonnet to feel the control tightening around you. In parts of the United States, it already feels like the story is happening in real time—just without the cinematic lighting.

Every day feels like a fresh headline meant to crush whatever hope was still flickering. Court rulings, legislation, gaslighting from those in power. It’s exhausting to keep explaining why we’re upset, why we’re protesting, why we still have to fight for rights that should be unshakable.

And the fight is no longer just metaphorical. It’s in our neighborhoods, in our courts, in our hospitals, in our schools. Some of us are out in the streets. Some of us are writing letters. Some are just trying to get through the day while wondering if things will ever get better. Honestly sometimes I want some things to happen that aren’t very nice. The frustration fights with the rage   It’s a strange chemical reaction that seems to result in more of both element.  

Have you ever made your own candle? If you don’t have enough wick for the size of your vessel, you run the risk of the wick becoming flooded by melted wax.  That’s kind of how I feel lately…

So what do we do when the fire inside us dims? When resistance feels more like survival?

Here’s what I’ve come to believe:

Rest is resistance, too. There’s a message, especially in activist spaces, that we always have to be “on.” But we are not machines. Burnout is real, and it’s okay—necessary, even—to step back. To breathe. To protect your spirit. There is no revolution if we’re all broken.

We need each other. Isolation is part of how control works. But solidarity is still possible, even in quiet ways. Talking to other women. Sharing stories. Creating safe spaces, even if they’re small and fleeting. Even a text that says, “I’m tired too” can be an act of rebellion.

We hold both rage and hope. That’s the hardest part, I think. To feel everything at once. To be heartbroken, furious, exhausted—and still believe that something better is worth fighting for. But we do it. We have to. Even when hope feels naive. Even when it flickers low.

Some days, I want to scream. Other days, I want to disappear under the covers and never come out. But most days, I just try to carry the flame. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s shaking.

If you’re reading this and feeling the same way—numb, overwhelmed, defeated—you’re not alone. You are not the only one trying to stay afloat in the tide of it all. There is no right way to survive this moment. But I believe survival itself is a form of resistance.

We don’t need to burn bright every day. We just need to keep the light alive. For ourselves. For each other.