How to spot internalised misogyny in romance novels

We need to talk about the misogyny that lives inside romance novels written by women, for women, about women’s fantasies. Not the obvious stuff — not the controlling billionaire who tracks her phone or the alpha male who makes all her decisions for her. Those are easy to spot and easier to critique.

I’m talking about the subtle misogyny that’s so normalised we don’t even clock it. The kind that’s baked into character dynamics, plot structures, and romantic arcs in ways that feel natural because they mirror the patriarchal water we’re all swimming in.

This is about internalised misogyny — the ways women have absorbed and reproduced the very beliefs and structures that diminish us — and how it shows up in the romance we write and read. And it matters because romance is one of the few genres where women’s fantasies get to exist relatively uncensored, which means when misogyny appears there, it reveals something uncomfortable about what we’ve been taught to want.

What is internalised misogyny, actually?

Internalised misogyny is when women accept and reinforce sexist beliefs about our own gender. It’s the voice in your head that says you’re not like other girls, that you have to compete with women for male attention, that your value is tied to your desirability to men, that feminine interests are frivolous while masculine ones are serious.

It’s insidious because it feels like your own thoughts and preferences — not like oppression.

You genuinely believe you’re just being honest when you say you prefer male friends because women are too much drama, or when you judge other women for their sexual choices while giving men a pass, or when you dismiss romance as trash while valorising male-dominated genres.

In romance novels, internalised misogyny shows up when authors unconsciously reproduce patriarchal narratives while trying to write empowering stories about women’s desire and agency.

The result is often heroines who claim independence while existing primarily in relation to male validation, or plots that frame women as each other’s natural enemies, or happily-ever-afters that require the heroine to become smaller so the hero can remain large.

The “not like other girls” heroine.

You know her. She doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t care about fashion, rolls her eyes at feminine women, and prides herself on being relatable to men. She’s a cool girl, low-maintenance, one of the guys. The narrative frames this as empowering — she’s not shallow, she’s authentic.

But here’s the tell: the story consistently positions her as superior to more feminine women. The mean girls are always hyper-feminine: makeup, designer clothes, an interest in appearance and social dynamics. The heroine’s love interest probably has an ex who was too high-maintenance, too concerned with shopping and brunch and other frivolous feminine pursuits.

The heroine wins because she’s different — because she’s rejected femininity and its associations with vanity, competition, and superficiality.

This is textbook internalised misogyny. It suggests that feminine women are less worthy of love and respect, that traditionally feminine interests are inferior to masculine or gender-neutral ones, that women gain value by distancing themselves from other women and aligning with men.

It also sets up a zero-sum game where the heroine’s specialness depends on other women being lesser. Her uniqueness requires a backdrop of inferior feminine women against which she can shine. This is the exact mechanism patriarchy uses to keep women divided — making us compete for male approval by positioning femininity itself as the enemy.

The feminist alternative isn’t to write heroines who love makeup and fashion instead — it’s to write stories where women’s worth isn’t measured by their proximity to or distance from traditional femininity. Where a heroine can be a tomboy or a girly-girl without that being a statement about her value relative to other women. Where feminine interests aren’t coded as stupid and masculine interests aren’t coded as serious.

Female friendship as obstacle, not support.

Pay attention to how many romance novels treat female friendships as secondary, superficial, or even antagonistic compared to the central romantic relationship.

The heroine might have a best friend who serves as comic relief or a sounding board, but that friendship rarely has the depth, complexity, or narrative weight of the romance. The friend exists to facilitate the love story, not as a relationship that matters in its own right.

Worse, female friendships are often casualties of the romance.

The heroine cancels plans with friends to be with the hero. She stops confiding in her female friends once she has a boyfriend. Her growth arc involves moving away from female community and toward coupledom.

At worst, all she’s ever known are toxic female friendships and her falling in love with the male lead is what saves her from the fate of becoming a bitter hag (aka single older woman).

The message is clear: romantic love with a man is the relationship that counts. Female friendship is for before you find your person.

This reproduces the patriarchal devaluation of women’s relationships with each other. It suggests that women are placeholders for each other until the real relationship — with a man — comes along. It treats female intimacy as less important, less transformative, less real than heterosexual romance.

And then there are the novels where women are actively positioned as romantic rivals, enemies, or threats. The other woman is almost always villainised — she’s manipulative, cruel, or pathetic. She wants the hero for the wrong reasons (money, status) while the heroine wants him for the right reasons (authentic connection, though it’s worth interrogating how that’s different from what the villain wants, given that the hero usually has both status and wealth that the heroine benefits from).

The rivalry is framed as natural, as if women competing for men is just how things work.

But this is a patriarchal narrative.

It positions women as each other’s natural enemies in the competition for male resources and attention, and it prevents female solidarity by making every woman a potential threat.

The feminist move would be to write female friendships that are as central to the heroine’s growth and happiness as the romance. To show women supporting each other through relationship struggles instead of competing. To recognise that romance can coexist with robust female friendship rather than replacing it.

The makeover moment.

The heroine is already beautiful, of course, but she doesn’t know it. She’s been hiding behind glasses, baggy clothes, messy hair. Then comes the makeover — sometimes voluntary, sometimes orchestrated by well-meaning friends or the hero himself — and suddenly she’s revealed as gorgeous.

More importantly, the makeover is what allows the hero to finally see her. He’s been oblivious to her existence, or he’s seen her only as a friend. But once she’s wearing the right dress, the right makeup, the right hairstyle, he suddenly notices. The makeover unlocks his desire.

This reinforces several misogynistic ideas. First, that women’s natural state needs correction — that our unadorned selves are insufficient. Second, that our value lies in being visually pleasing to men. Third, that transformation into conventional femininity is required for romantic success.

The makeover narrative tells women that who we are isn’t enough.

We need to become more feminine, more conventionally attractive, more visually appealing to deserve male attention and love. It suggests that our interior qualities — intelligence, kindness, humour — are irrelevant until our exterior is sorted.

It also often includes an element of the hero “teaching” the heroine how to be properly feminine, or of female friends/family fixing her because she’s somehow failed at basic womanhood by not already knowing how to style herself. Either way, the message is that there’s a correct way to be a woman, and it’s defined by male desire.

The feminist alternative recognises that personal style is valid whether it aligns with conventional femininity or not, that attraction isn’t contingent on conforming to beauty standards, and that a heroine’s worth exists independent of male gaze and male approval.

The rescue fantasy that requires helplessness.

Romantic tension is often built on the heroine needing saving — financially, physically, emotionally. She’s in debt, in danger, in despair, and the hero arrives with his resources, strength, and stability to solve her problems.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with vulnerability or interdependence in relationships. But when this dynamic is one-directional — when she’s always the one in need and he’s always the provider — it reproduces patriarchal gender roles. It positions female helplessness as romantic and male power as naturally protective rather than potentially dominating.

The really insidious version is when the heroine is artificially weakened to create opportunities for rescue. She’s competent in her professional life but suddenly can’t handle a flat tire, or she’s fiercely independent except when plot requires her to need the hero’s intervention. Her helplessness serves the narrative’s need for him to be strong, capable, and necessary.

This also shows up in economic rescue fantasies, particularly in billionaire romance. The heroine’s financial struggles are resolved not through her own advancement or systemic change, but through proximity to male wealth. He pays off her student loans, gets her a better job through his connections, or simply provides for her so she doesn’t need to work (positioning her more akin to a daughter than a lover, but I won’t unpack that here).

The message: women’s problems require male solutions.

Female empowerment isn’t about gaining your own power, resources, or agency — it’s about being chosen by a powerful man who shares his power with you. You’re still dependent; you’ve just upgraded your dependence to a more comfortable level.

The feminist move would be to write heroines whose competencies remain consistent, whose problems aren’t always solved by the hero’s intervention, who maintain economic and emotional agency even within romantic relationships. Interdependence is different from dependence, and romance can exist without requiring the heroine to be structurally subordinate.

Virginity as value, sexual experience as damage.

How many romance heroines are virgins or nearly so? How many heroes have extensive sexual histories that are treated as evidence of their experience and skill, while similar histories in women would code them as damaged goods, promiscuous, or less worthy of the hero’s love?

The virgin heroine isn’t inherently problematic, but when it’s the default — when sexual inexperience in women is consistently romanticised while sexual experience in men is valorised — we’re reproducing the Madonna/whore binary that patriarchy uses to control female sexuality.

The virgin heroine is “pure,” untouched, a blank slate onto which the hero can inscribe his desire. She hasn’t been “used” by other men. Her sexual awakening is about him and him alone. This frames female sexuality as something that diminishes with use, as property that loses value when it’s been handled by too many previous owners.

Meanwhile, the hero’s sexual history is framed as practice, as skill-building that now benefits the heroine. He knows what he’s doing in bed because he’s been with other women, and rather than that being threatening or diminishing, it’s reassuring. His experience makes him a better lover for her.

The double standard is blatant. Sexual experience makes men more valuable and women less so.

And when romance novels do feature heroines with sexual histories, those histories often need to be explained or justified. She was in a long-term relationship that ended, so her sexual experience is contained within respectable romantic commitment. Or she went through a phase but now she’s ready for real love. Or her past was traumatic and she needs the hero to heal her relationship with sexuality.

Rarely do we see heroines who’ve simply enjoyed casual sex without drama, trauma, or the excuse of a prior relationship. That would challenge the idea that female sexuality is only acceptable when it’s romantic, committed, or at least explained by emotional circumstances.

The feminist romance acknowledges that sexual history — or lack thereof — doesn’t determine worth for anyone. It treats women’s sexual choices with the same neutrality and lack of judgement that male characters’ choices receive. It recognises that virginity is neither a virtue nor a deficit, just a state that some people are in at various points in their lives.

The “taming” arc.

She’s difficult, stubborn, rebellious, too independent. He’s going to “tame” her, “break through her walls”, “show her she needs him”. The language itself is revealing — we’re talking about a woman like she’s a wild animal that needs domestication or a fortress that needs conquering.

This framing positions female independence as a problem that love solves. Her self-sufficiency isn’t respected; it’s seen as a defence mechanism, a wound, something sad that prevents her from accepting the love she secretly wants. The hero’s job is to wear down her resistance until she admits she needs him.

The romantic arc then becomes about her capitulation — about her learning to be vulnerable, to accept help, to admit she can’t do everything alone. And again, there’s nothing wrong with vulnerability or interdependence. But when the story frames her initial independence as a flaw and her eventual dependence as growth, we’re right back in patriarchal territory.

Because here’s the thing: men’s independence in romance is almost never pathologised this way.

The lone-wolf hero doesn’t need to be tamed or taught to need someone. His self-sufficiency is respected as strength, not diagnosed as fear of intimacy. If he does have an emotional arc, it’s about learning to be more emotionally expressive, not about becoming dependent on the heroine for his basic functioning.

The gendered difference is stark.

Women who don’t need men are broken and need fixing. Men who don’t need women are strong and just need the right woman to make them want to open up or settle down.

The feminist alternative would be to write heroines whose independence is genuine and remains intact within the relationship. Who choose partnership not because they’ve been worn down or taught to need it, but because they genuinely want it while maintaining their autonomy. Whose vulnerability is a choice, not a surrender.

How pregnancy/babies are used to secure commitment.

This one is subtle but pervasive: the use of pregnancy or desire for children as the ultimate proof of the heroine’s desirability and the relationship’s validity.

In many romances, the hero’s willingness to have children with the heroine is positioned as the ultimate romantic gesture — as evidence that he’s truly committed, that she’s the one. Conversely, pregnancy (whether accidental or planned) often serves as the mechanism that forces a commitment-phobic hero to finally acknowledge his feelings and commit.

This reproduces several problematic ideas. First, that women’s ultimate value lies in their reproductive capacity — that the highest form of male investment is his willingness to have children with you. Second, that pregnancy or children are necessary to secure male commitment, suggesting that romantic love alone isn’t enough to keep him. Third, that motherhood is the heroine’s natural destiny and ultimate fulfilment.

The epilogue featuring the heroine pregnant or with children is so standard it’s almost expected. The happily-ever-after isn’t just about the couple being together; it’s about them reproducing. Childlessness is rarely presented as a valid choice for a romance heroine. If she doesn’t want children, it’s usually framed as a wound from her past that the hero’s love will heal, not as a legitimate life choice.

This also often plays out in the heroine giving up career ambitions or compromising her goals to accommodate pregnancy and childcare in ways the hero never has to. She cuts back her hours, turns down promotions, or leaves her job entirely while he continues his career trajectory unimpeded. The narrative treats this as natural and unproblematic, as if the gendered division of reproductive labour is just how things work rather than a political choice.

The feminist alternative would be to write romances where children are a choice, not a foregone conclusion. Where the happily-ever-after can include children or not, and either option is treated as equally valid. Where if characters do have children, the labour and sacrifice is distributed equitably rather than falling primarily on the heroine.

So what do we do with all this?

Recognising internalised misogyny in romance doesn’t mean we burn the books or stop reading. It means we read with our eyes open. We notice the patterns. We ask questions about whose fantasies are being served and what messages we’re absorbing about women’s value, women’s relationships with each other, and what women should want.

It also means we hold space for the fact that women’s fantasies are complicated and sometimes contradictory. We’ve been raised in patriarchy; of course our desires are shaped by it. The fantasy of being chosen, of being saved, of being tamed by the right man — these resonate because we’ve been taught to want them.

Critiquing internalised misogyny in romance isn’t about shaming women for their fantasies. It’s about understanding where those fantasies come from and imagining what different fantasies might be possible if we weren’t operating under patriarchal constraints.

The goal isn’t to write or read only politically pure romance. The goal is to be aware, to be critical, to notice when the stories we’re telling ourselves about love reproduce the very structures that limit us.

And maybe, gradually, to want something different — something that imagines women as full people whose worth isn’t measured by male desire, whose relationships with other women matter as much as their romances, whose independence is strength rather than a problem to be solved.

Because romance at its best is utopian — it imagines worlds where love is possible, where connection happens, where people grow and change and find happiness together.

But if that utopia still requires women to be smaller, less ambitious, less connected to each other, and more dependent on men, then we’re not imagining freedom. We’re just repackaging the same old constraints with better lighting and a happily-ever-after.

We deserve fantasies that actually set us free.

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