How one word became a powerful tool for women navigating burnout, boundaries, and midlife.
What is it about the word fuck that’s resonating with women right now?
A friend sent me a bracelet in Morse code. It spells out “fuckity fuck fuck.”
Here it is if you want one: Fuckity Fuck Fuck Bracelet
I wear it. I laugh. It helps.
(BTW I really want to get this for my office. I have resisted.) F-Bomb Paperweight
I’m not alone. You’ve probably seen The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson. No, I haven’t read it cover to cover. But the core idea is clear: We all have a finite number of fucks to give. Spend them wisely. Choose what matters, and stop performing emotional gymnastics for things that don’t.
“The key to a good life is not giving a fuck about more; it’s giving a fuck about less—only what is true and immediate and important.”
That message has clearly landed—through cultural osmosis or otherwise.
The word fuck has taken root in women’s spaces: texts, group threads, therapy offices, late-night calls, book clubs.
It’s shorthand for power, grief, exhaustion, rage, humor, love, release.
Sometimes it’s the only word that fits.
Why Now?
This language shift isn’t about rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s about clarity. Reclaiming a word that once belittled or inflamed, and saying:
No, actually. This is mine now.
Something is stirring. A quiet uprising.
A moment of reckoning. A collective pause in which women ask:
What do I want? Who am I now, really?
Those questions are disorienting—especially in midlife.
Especially while raising kids, managing households, or rebuilding after loss.
Sometimes the only fitting response is a muttered—or shouted—fuck.
For some women, it’s whispered at the sink after wiping yet another counter, another nose, another invisible burden.
For others, it’s shouted into the wind on a solo hike after ending a long marriage or enduring another soul-shrinking year at work.
Sometimes it’s just a full sentence: Fucking fuck.
I don’t think it’s crude.
I think it’s a spell. A release valve. A rallying cry.
But What If You Don’t Swear?
If cursing isn’t your thing, I get it. Truly.
Some people feel the language is too coarse. I respect that.
I’ve heard it takes a “bigger mind” to find gentler words. Perhaps.
But I have a huge vocabulary.
I study words for fun. I write delicate feedback.
I can be so diplomatic I disappear.
And still—sometimes, no word works better than fuck.
Not darn, not gosh, not this is problematic.
Just: Fuck.
Because this is not okay.
Because this hurts.
Because something has to change.
There’s Science, Too
Swearing has psychological and physiological benefits.
A 2009 study from Keele University found that cursing increases pain tolerance. When participants plunged their hands into ice water, those who swore lasted longer.
Why? Because swearing activates the amygdala—a different brain region than regular language. It triggers emotional release and physical resilience.
A 2017 study published in Social Psychological and Personality Science found that people who curse are often perceived as more genuine and honest.
So no, swearing isn’t “better”—but it is honest.
It doesn’t hide. It doesn’t shrink. It matches the moment.
Maybe that’s what women are claiming right now:
The right to be raw.
Language as Power
Historically, women’s anger has been silenced, pathologized, ridiculed, or repackaged into politeness.
The “angry woman” is a slur. A caricature.
But what if the angry woman is also the most clear-eyed one?
What if she’s the one who sees what’s broken—and names it?
Fuck becomes shorthand for all the times we were told to smile. To soften. To accommodate.
It’s what we say when we’re done softening.
This may be generational.
Or pandemic-related.
Or menopause.
Or climate grief.
Or simply the billion micro-moments in which women swallowed their words… until they stopped.
This isn’t everyone’s story. And it doesn’t have to be.
Some people find other ways.
That’s good. Use what works. But for many of us, fuck is a tool. A talisman. A tiny act of liberation.
It says: You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to smile. You’re allowed to feel—and name it.
So yes. I’ll keep wearing my bracelet.
And if you see a woman walking alone, whispering “fuckity fuck fuck” with a small smile?
You might just be witnessing a reclamation.
Let her have it.
