Intimately Political Conversations on Feminisms

This text emerged from a conversation among three women who identify as feminists. We took a break from our daily rush and sat down to discuss a question that resonates deeply with us: How have we experienced and navigated feminism in our bodies, our emotions, our work, and our everyday decisions?

The format of this text summarizes the reflections that each of us, and collectively, developed to answer this question. Moving back and forth between the personal and the political, we highlight the individuality of our voices and, through writing, recreate the conversation we had. Our trajectories intertwine and open up to the genealogies of Latin American and Caribbean feminisms that came before us.

Myriam:

One of the reflections that emerged most strongly as we listened to each other’s situated experiences of feminism was the persistent tension between who we are and who we are expected to be; the distance between our authentic selves and the mandates that precede us, some of which still circulate globally, almost intact.

I thought about authenticity, that fundamental human need, which is diluted when the desire for acceptance prevails over the desire to be oneself and overshadows parts of who we are. Feminisms have allowed me to think, feel, and act beyond the rigid divisions imposed by our societies, but they are not free from mandates either: “Woman, don’t cry, fight,” read a poster. “Be strong! Speak out!” the systems dictate, while internally we whisper to ourselves: “Don’t let your doubts, your exhaustion, your fears show.”

Many women—especially in mixed-gender spaces—avoid showing vulnerability. It is understandable: in our society, vulnerability is rarely valued as a strength. Controlling emotions and subjectivity has been not only a path to “becoming a man” but also a strategy for becoming defenders of rights in contexts that are increasingly less centered on the heterosexual norm, yet remain deeply patriarchal.

It is hard to acknowledge how a lack of authenticity affects our physical and mental health. In my therapeutic work in Ecuador, I noticed that many feminists show greater resistance to accepting our vulnerability, and in Colombia, I encountered colleagues working in human rights who were dealing with severe stress-related inflammation or keeping their pregnancies “low-key” so as not to affect “productivity.”

Recognizing that we are also vulnerable helps us take better care of ourselves, but our willingness is not enough if the world does not recognize fragility as a human strength. We need to integrate the psychological with our social reality. The psychosocial approach allows us to understand that our mental health, performance, and relationships are shaped by the context in which we live. Applying this means that care can be a shared practice at work and in daily life.

It also implies that “the issues that concern us as women” cease to be secondary or solely ours. Talking about the body, emotions, care, sexuality, the instrumentalization of people or nature, the redistribution of responsibilities, public and private equality, or identity—these are not minor issues in a global context where rights built over centuries are crumbling. These issues lie at the heart of so-called public affairs: climate justice, fiscal justice, peace, democracy, cooperation, rights, etc.

Anyer:

I am a woman from Chocó. I grew up in a household with clearly defined roles: men as providers, women as caregivers, and me, the one receiving care. From that point on, I identified gender roles without even realizing it.

By recognizing that there is no single feminism, I understand that feminisms arise from women in all their diversity. From our experiences, we identify inequalities stemming from a society that imposes distinct roles on men and women. But do feminisms affect us all equally?

Sara Ahmed, in Living a Feminist Life, shows how knowledge is constructed from our own place, including from the family table. In Chocó, resisting structural racism and state neglect, my grandmother holds the household together: she cares for us and performs domestic chores. My grandfather worked and provided, and my aunt defies traditional mandates by being a provider and my primary caregiver. I received care, especially from women.

In conversations with my grandmother, she told me: “If I had been an educated woman, I wouldn’t have had so many children” (at age 80) and “I’m living my youth now; I didn’t have it before” (at age 90). In listening to her, I heard the voices of many women from Chocó: the impossibility of deciding over their own bodies and a youth denied by relentless work and caregiving. These experiences are not isolated: they resonate with those of other women in the Global South, marked by structural inequalities that limit their autonomy.

In Afro-descendant families, feminisms transcend gender roles. Intersectionality—where categories such as racism, class, and gender intersect—permeates our lives. Family dynamics are not interpreted solely through the lenses of providers and caregivers. Economic, social, geographic, and racial gaps limit access to fundamental rights and force people to work from an early age. At the same time, many women take on caregiving tasks—most of them unpaid—generate income, and, if they study, face double or triple shifts that restrict their right to rest, pleasure, and personal projects.

That is why feminism cannot be separated from the struggle against racism, structural racial inequality, or class inequality.

I first learned about feminism through organizations with white and Western perspectives, where intersectionality is almost nonexistent and the experiences of racialized women take a backseat. Later, alongside other women of African descent, I engaged with decolonial feminisms and Afrofeminisms. We understood that there is no single feminism: we do not all experience it from the same place. Many of us practice feminism without naming it: by caring for others while we work or by sustaining impoverished and marginalized communities.

Naming racial and structural inequalities is part of the feminist commitment. For me, being a feminist means recognizing the intersection of oppressions and helping to bridge gaps. From where I stand—as a woman, a person of African descent, and a lawyer—I cannot speak of feminisms without speaking of racism.

Feminism will be anti-racist or it will not be at all.

Margarita:

I was born and raised in Bogotá, but my grandparents and great-grandparents were coffee farmers. Although I lived in the city and understood little about daily life on coffee farms—based on my family’s stories and what I observed during my sporadic visits to the farm—I soon saw how, in the countryside, decisions regarding the land, resources, and women’s lives were made by men.

In that deeply patriarchal context, women cared for their families and neighbors, planted the crops that allowed people to feed themselves every day, and sustained life in the homes. Without their daily labor, the coffee farms would not have been able to operate day-to-day, as the workers would have lacked the food and care necessary to survive. But that labor—so vital, routine, and urgent—was not recognized. In fact, it was always said that women did nothing; that they stayed at home and depended on the work of men, who were supposedly the ones who knew how to work the land.

Through feminism, I have come to understand that the land is deeply connected to feminism and feminism is deeply connected to the land, because extractive systems rely on patriarchal gender arrangements and because it is women who have fiercely defended our rights to water, land, and territory so that we may live better lives.

Currently, in Latin America and the Caribbean, we are witnessing a boom in extractive megaprojects, which seek to extract raw materials from our territories and seize vast tracts of land to supply economic chains in the Global North. At the heart of extractivism and megaprojects lies patriarchy, for, on the one hand, women sustain the daily care work that allows megaprojects to establish themselves and operate in these territories; and, on the other, the advance of extractivism and land grabbing is often accompanied by the militarization of these spaces, which increases the risks of sexual violence against feminized bodies.

In this context, I believe that feminism is urgent and vital for envisioning economic and development models that place life and care at the center. The centuries of struggle by Indigenous, Afro-descendant, and peasant women to defend life and the land inspire me to imagine possible futures that challenge extractivism and pave the way for, as Federici says, “re-enchanting the world,” by conceiving our lives outside of extractive and patriarchal logics, and putting into practice new ways of collectively organizing care and sustaining life with dignity and joy.

Final Reflection

The tapestry of our voices reveals questions, tensions, and trajectories that inhabit contemporary feminisms and that challenge not only women but all of humanity. Vulnerability, care, intersectionality, joy, and our relationship with the earth are not “women’s issues,” but deeply human and urgent themes that feminism continues to place at the center of its struggles and that invite us to explore creative possibilities for rethinking how we want to live and sustain life in common.