Who Decided What a ‘Good Woman’ Looks Like?

The idea of a “good woman” feels ancient, almost instinctive. As if it’s always existed. As if women have always known what was expected of them.

But expectations don’t appear out of thin air.
They are designed. Repeated. Enforced.

And someone, somewhere, always benefits.

If you go far enough back, you’ll notice something unsettling: there was never just one version of a good woman. There were many, depending on what society needed from her at the time.

In early agrarian societies, a good woman was productive. She worked land, raised children, preserved food, survived hardship. Strength wasn’t unfeminine; it was necessary. Fragility was a liability.

That changed when property, inheritance, and lineage became central. Suddenly, women’s bodies mattered less for labor and more for control. Sexual purity became currency. Obedience became virtue. Silence became safety.

Religion played a starring role here. Across cultures, religious texts were interpreted—often selectively—to position women as morally weaker, emotionally unstable, and in need of guidance. Eve wasn’t just a biblical figure; she became a warning. Desire was dangerous. Curiosity was sinful. Independence was rebellion.

A good woman, the story went, knew her place.

During colonial expansion, the definition tightened further. European empires exported not just borders and laws, but ideals of womanhood. Modesty, passivity, domesticity—these traits were framed as “civilized.” Indigenous women who didn’t conform were labeled immoral, backward, or in need of saving.

This wasn’t accidental. Controlling women was a reliable way to control communities.

Historian Antoinette Burton notes that colonial powers often judged entire cultures by how “well” women were contained. The good woman became proof of moral superiority.

Then came industrial capitalism, which reshaped the ideal again.

Men moved into paid labor. Women were pushed into the home. Domesticity was rebranded as destiny. The good woman was now nurturing, self-sacrificing, endlessly patient—holding together a household so the workforce could function.

This is when the myth really solidified: that caregiving wasn’t work, that endurance was love, that fulfillment came from serving others quietly.

The 1950s housewife didn’t emerge because women suddenly wanted nothing else. She emerged because the economy needed her there.

Media made sure the image stuck.

Films, advertisements, magazines—all reinforced the same message. A good woman smiled more than she spoke. She supported her husband’s dreams. She kept herself attractive but not threatening. Ambition was acceptable only if it didn’t disrupt anyone else’s comfort.

Even rebellion had limits. You could be modern, but not loud. Independent, but still desirable. Strong, but never angry.

Second-wave feminism cracked the image, but it didn’t destroy it. It simply updated it.

Now, a good woman could work—but still manage everything at home. She could be confident—but not intimidating. Sexually liberated—but not judged. Empowered—but grateful.

The contradiction became the point.

Sociologist Rosalind Gill describes this as “self-surveillance,” where women internalize expectations and police themselves. No one has to enforce the rules anymore. Women do it for free.

Social media took this further. The good woman now has a body type, a skincare routine, a productivity system, a tone of voice. She’s emotionally intelligent. Trauma-aware. Low-maintenance but high-value.

She is always improving herself. Rarely questioning why.

Across cultures, the specifics change—but the pattern doesn’t. A good woman adapts to the needs of the moment. She absorbs pressure. She smooths friction. She makes systems look humane.

And when she doesn’t?

She’s difficult.
Unstable.
Too much.

The labels shift, but the punishment remains.

What’s often missed is that the “good woman” ideal has never been about morality. It’s about manageability.

A good woman is predictable.
She’s legible.
She’s easy to organize around.

That’s why the definition keeps changing. Not because society is confused—but because its demands are.

Philosopher Michel Foucault argued that power works best when it feels normal. The ideal woman isn’t imposed through force anymore. She’s sold as aspiration.

Be like this.
You’ll be loved.
You’ll be chosen.
You’ll be safe.

Except safety is conditional. Approval is temporary. And the goalposts move constantly.

The question, then, isn’t how to become a good woman.

It’s why women are still expected to be one.

Because once you see the pattern—how history, culture, religion, and economics shaped this figure—you realize the truth isn’t personal at all.

The “good woman” was never about goodness.

She was about order.

And order has always required women to bend first.

Femonomic isn’t interested in redefining the good woman.

It’s interested in asking a more dangerous question:

What happens when women stop auditioning for a role that was never written for their freedom?