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 a...