How to Ensure Liberal White Women Never Happen Again: A Father’s Guide

“There are only two lasting bequeaths we can hope to give our children. One is roots, the other wings." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German poet, playwright, novelist, and statesman (1749–1832)

At long, long last—after almost two decades of DEI committees and public meltdowns at Trader Joe’s, after raising an entire generation on resentment, Ritalin, the sacralization of Roe v. Wade, and rape fantasies dressed up as cultural and political insight—it appears the era of Liberal White Women might finally be coming to an end. Yes, these harpies still wield immense institutional force, particularly within HR departments and in the classroom, while most of the female population, even those comparatively sensible segments, still speak some dialect of liberalism. Now though, the shrillness seems to have faded, their vitriol spent, the once-unshakeable certainty in their establishment-implanted convictions fast ebbing away.

Karen has become an undiluted insult.

The role of wife and mother is again being celebrated.

Feminist outlets such as Jezebel and Mother Jones have either collapsed or been reduced to husks of their former selves, the NYT and Washington Post now publishing pieces on how feminism has gone too far. Hell, there’s even a growing search for the “left-wing Joe Rogan,” as Democrats reluctantly and ham-fistedly begin recognizing the need to appeal to masculine motivations.

But while the tsunami of Liberal White Women may have peaked, as its waters retreat and the shorelines of sanity again become visible, the devastation left in its wake has become all too apparent. From the horrors of mass migration to the barbarous delusions of transgenderism, from the normalization of degeneracy to the dismantling of the family unit, the damage wrought during these gynocentric years has been nothing short of incalculable, not least to advocates themselves. Admittedly, these are far from the most sympathetic casualties. Be it the used-up Tinder slut or the career-chasing girlboss-turned-childless spinster; the dead-eyed OnlyFans model, the lonely abortion fanatic, or the diabetic body positivity zealot, it was just such adherents who willingly and enthusiastically propelled the wave which once threatened to wash Western civilization away. And yet, even if one cannot conceptualize these women as victims, a perfectly defensible position, then neither should we lose sight of their story, if only as a cautionary tale.

Never Again

On this front, I, for one, intend to stay vigilant. Naturally, I do not wish to see society further emasculated by the neurotic sensitivities of short-haired she-goblins any more than I want to again witness our traditions ransacked by diversity commissars twacked out on birth control. In truth, however, my desire to avert a fifth (and perhaps fatal) feminist wave is largely selfish in nature. Watching my three-year-old daughter putter about her sandbox or tear through a packet of cheese curds, I am often gripped by a dread which far surpasses any I ever harbored about being crushed in family court or jailed over some spurious accusation of sexual assault—a dread no doubt familiar to many a father across the Western world. Of course, the ideology our girls will be conscripted into, if we allow it, will not be one of pronouns and pussy hats, but of climate obedience, AI-driven surveillance, and 15-minute cities, yet regardless of what the next state-sanctioned dogma might look like, what remains inevitable is that it will be pitched through a feminine lens.

After all, as the great manipulators of history have long understood, the female mind represents the most porous entry point through which to infiltrate humanity at large. Among the most notorious was Edward Bernays, father of modern PR and nephew of Sigmund Freud, who first harnessed psychoanalytic techniques to hijack the spending habits of women. These would be further refined by Helen Lansdowne Resor as well as Draper Daniels and Leo Burnett, (inspirations for the TV show Mad Men), but it was not until such methods were introduced to the political realm, through figures like Saul Alinsky and Clement Whitaker, that we would see their full, society-upending effects.

The reader has presumably observed these firsthand. Maybe it was a previously angelic niece who skipped off to college only to return with purple hair and passion for political lesbianism, or maybe it was TikTok’s slow wokification of your sister, but no matter how inexplicable such mutations might have seemed, they remain wholly preventable when fathers appreciate and prepare for a few core feminine vulnerabilities.

The Fear of Exclusion

Arguably the most exploitable of these, at least in the age of Liberal White Women, was the distinctly female anxiety surrounding ostracization. The origins of such an instinct could scarcely be more obvious. Throughout the totality of human existence, women were, in a far more immediate and observable sense than today, thoroughly reliant upon men, whether for food, shelter, or protection from neighboring clans. Needless to say, contemporary academia has sought to rewrite such un-progressive realities with theories of matriarchal hunting parties and still more questionable claims of medieval transgender warrioresses. However, the harsh reality for pre-modern women was that to be cast out of the tribe didn’t just mean being uninvited to Appletini Tuesdays—it amounted to a literal death sentence. To mitigate such threats, nature fostered within the supposedly fairer sex, a pronounced sensitivity to social currents, rewarding those who could detect shifts in mood, intuit emotional responses, and thus calibrate their behavior to the prevailing standards of the tribe.

Such tendencies still linger today, long after the concept of “tribe” has been degraded beyond recognition. In our terminally online world, where most women never encounter the men who harvest their quinoa or restore their Wi-Fi access, this evolutionarily enshrined capacity has been configured to what’s right there in front of them: namely, their phones. That the “communities” these connect them with bear little resemblance to those they actually inhabit is of no particular relevance. For a great many women, especially those hypnotized by unending social media hysteria, the mere impression of a consensus can be enough to fire up some very ancient circuitry, the years of liberal domination seeing a sizeable proportion rage against the tampon tax and march in solidarity with drag queens, not out of any deeply held moral conviction, but to signal their allegiance to what they perceived as the dominant cultural and political paradigm.

And this manipulation-by-numbers is only set to increase. Predictably, assertions of wholesale agreement, either in regard to food rationing or the trendy efficiency of pod-life, will continue to be propagated by both legacy media and allegedly independent influencers alike. What is going to become more prevalent, however, are their armies of narrative-compounding bots. These, it is estimated, already account for over half of all comments on the internet (considerably more during times of political upheaval), although even these will eventually be supplanted by yet more deceptive advancements in deepfakes, voice-cloning, and AR overlays. It is no exaggeration to say that such technologies will grant the ruling elite the means to manufacture any zeitgeist they choose, and yet the most troubling prospect of all is that this may one day be codified into a social credit system—women fearing not just banishment from the group, but the even more profound isolation of being misaligned with the algorithm.

How Father’s Can Assuage This Fear

In the face of such a future, it is understandable why any devoted father might wish to sever his daughter’s ties to modernity altogether: to confiscate her laptop, ban anything that sounds remotely like Billie Eilish, and impose a strict regime of sourdough and scripture. And to no small degree, such measures are necessary. If any parent is unaware of the kinds of depravity being disseminated by celebrity reprobates or the purposefully stupefying sinkholes of Instagram, then I am afraid to say they are falling woefully short of their duties. Given the harm inflicted by abortion, porn, hypergamy, and hookup culture, neither can they reasonably deny the danger posed by unconstrained femininity. But so too is seclusion impossible. Besides, I don’t think it a life most fathers would want for their daughters. For as long as there have been locked towers and chastity belts, arranged marriages and nunneries, the forbidden has become the alluring, the protector the tyrant—no castle wall tall enough to keep the temptations of the contemporary world at bay.

In short, the old impulse to guard and to shelter must be allied with a fatherly duty to fortify. For boys, this constitutes a self-evident (if no-less grueling) task: the cultivation of moral clarity, the forging of strength through hardship, the tempering of appetites, and the deliberate awakening to meaning. For daughters, such reinforcements demand a rather more delicate approach. With their more deferential natures and prioritization of immediate survival over elevating strife, girls, as a rule, cannot be expected to adhere to the lone wolf lifestyle, some measure of safety required first for them to breathe, then to blossom.

This, it would be hoped, is initially provided by her father. Sure, all little girls should be guaranteed unflagging protection and a harmonious home life, nourishing meals and patient caregivers, but during times of civilizational unraveling—times very much like these—so too will they need the man in their lives to embody a bulwark more robust and more palpable than any offered by the crowd. Regrettably, this can only go so far. She will grow up and you will grow old; you will falter and she will notice, and yet, if experienced consistently enough and viscerally enough, the supreme securities of childhood will have imprinted themselves somewhere far deeper than memory, a stronghold she may retreat to if ever her conscience finds itself buffeted by the fickle winds of the age.

The Maternal Instinct

However cynical their weaponization of female fear, the government-corporate hegemon has proven just as willing to subvert a yet more sacred yearning: the creation and preservation of life. This is not merely about childbirth, as radical feminists and Wahhabi fundamentalists so reductively assert—it is a swelling compunction for existence to regenerate and endure, the ontological triumph of humanity rooted as much in the masculine drive to order, uplift, conquer, and overcome as in the tender, unyielding vigilance of women.

As goes without saying, the scourge of liberalism has twisted this into a crass and murderous parody. Systematically steered from their eternity-worn path, taught to view husbands, home, responsibilities, and children as needless burdens if not maliciously-invented tools of patriarchal oppression, generations of once-young women are suddenly waking up to discover a vast, primordial emptiness in their lives. And for what did they make this sacrifice? In the case of progressives, it was a litany of causes both destructive and absurd—trans inclusion and an illusory pay gap, Fentanyl Floyd and wave upon wave of rape-happy migration—all while deriding motherhood, conceivably the most potent vessel for genuine societal change, as small-minded and servile.

This is a crime of inarticulable proportions. From its earliest, most endearing expression—a little girl wrapping her doll in a blanket or play-acting as nurse to a sick parent—the maternal instinct is unmistakable, an instinct so gut-wrenchingly beautiful, it can hardly fail to reduce you to tears. A father must celebrate this at every opportunity he gets. Celebrate it not just in your daughter, but in her mother and in every mother worthy of the name, in the innumerable women throughout the centuries, who have sat watch over midnight cradles, emergent nurseries, fearful sickbeds, and early graves. Celebrate with enough veneration that your daughter can be left in no doubt as to the honor in such a calling. After all, in the years to follow, it is a calling which will come under renewed assault, the elite pitting not just women against men or women against children, but against the very sanctity of life itself. We have already seen their anti-natalist agenda lure untold numbers of women away from their shot at transcendent purpose, but with euthanasia and abortion rapidly advancing under the guise of human rights, DNA harvesting, biomechanical augmentation, and genetic engineering soon to be marketed as the same, mankind will require more than ever, the species-sustaining powers of women.

The Desire to be Beautiful

The final but no less formidable force to be commandeered against women is their own deep-seated longing to be attractive. It was this ambition that many of the earliest psychological swindlers sought to exploit—fashion advertisers such as Diana Vreeland and Janet L. Wolff intentionally injecting anxiety into their campaigns in order to capitalize on both female insecurities and America’s post-war boom.

It’s not difficult to see why their approach proved so profitable. Certainly, as most any girl-dad can attest, the feminine urge to adorn reveals itself early—whether in toddlers playing dress-up with their mother’s heels or mimicking her morning makeup routine. Granted, this proclivity isn’t always at its most enchanting when you open the bathroom door to find your best shirt smeared with several hundred dollars’ worth of ruined cosmetics. Nevertheless, it must be remembered that what you’re surveying is not just an eye-wateringly expensive mess—it is beauty, striving to be acknowledged.

Not long ago, it would’ve been. In the West, to a degree unique among civilizations, aesthetic splendor was lauded as nothing less than a manifestation of moral and spiritual order. This was articulated in its cathedrals and its post offices, in its street lights and in its amphitheaters, but nowhere did Western genius reach its most eloquent, than in its depictions of the female form. One need only experience the paintings of Botticelli or Bouguereau, the poems of Byron or Keats, to see how this was portrayed, not in the spirit of lust or conquest, but as something supremely ennobling, Mozart the composer who perhaps came closest to capturing the ineffable qualities of womanhood. Not that this admiration was limited to great artistic of minds, of course. Before the vulgarities of the modern age, a single spark of feminine beauty had the potential to illuminate everyday existence, to make children feel safe and inspire men to be better, and which offered, even for those without eyes for sublime art or immortal literature, an all-too-rare glimpse of the Divine.

Suffice to say, this has all but been extinguished. Just as post-modernism dragged art into mindless shock-jockery and architecture into bleak-but-functional brutalism, so too did it fracture womanly allure into two competing yet equally poisonous dogmas. On one hand lies the doctrine of the hollowed-out bimbo—the feminist who prizes physical beauty only insofar as it can be commodified as a source of income, a vehicle for approval, leverage over men, if not a weapon to wield against them. On the other are those liberal women who might charitably be said “to fall short of the mainstream ideal,” butterfly tattoos, septum rings, and unshaved armpits all employed as a kind of spiritual sabotage. But as if these were not blasphemous enough, by far the gravest desecration of feminine grace over the past two decades has been the sickening absurdity of transgender “women.” This grotesque spectacle of prosthetic breasts and corset dresses constituted a disfiguring attack on the crowning heights of Western aesthetic tradition and yet, however ghoulish these monstrosities might still appear, they are nothing compared to what’s coming over the horizon.

True, the rise of AI-generated women may not provoke the same reflexive disgust. Indeed, technological capabilities have advanced to such an extent that it is now possible, from the squalor of one’s semen-encrusted bedroom, to summon the hyper-realistic companionship of the most captivating women who never lived. But neither do these satiate solely carnal desires. In addition to AI porn, we are also seeing the emergence of deepfake “girlfriends,” each equipped with programmable identities, tailored affirmations, and a subscription-based model of risk-free intimacy. Given the rate of progress, it would seem naïve to assume that these seductresses are anything but prototypes of what’s already in the pipeline, men soon able to acquire a passable facsimile of emotional connection without the characteristic messiness of real flesh-and-blood women.

This represents, without hint of hyperbole, among the most pressing threats our species faces. Yes, the love of a good woman is today in perilously short supply. The hope of a wife and a committed, mutually uplifting relationship is, for huge swathes of the male population, a grimly unrealizable prospect. As has well been established, repeated to the point of cliché, the entitlement of Liberal White Women has precipitated an inter-sexual dynamic in which they have been instructed to demand—and to expect—a partner who is at once physically flawless, financially uninhibited, and emotionally clairvoyant, all while abandoning any semblance of standards for themselves. Men must resist the digital siren song nonetheless. We must resist for the same reasons we reject junk food, popular music, endless doom-scrolling, and the ease of chronic escapism: because they debase ourselves and obstruct our passage to the loftier parts of our being.

For fathers, the stakes are higher still. In succumbing to the convenience of synthetic women and all their infinitely customizable comforts, we deprive our daughters of the chance to witness the Feminine’s unmatched capacity to awaken dimensions of the soul long thought inaccessible—to act, much as Julius Evola described, as “the bearers of the Grail,” as “the symbol, the gate, the path that leads beyond the human condition.” Even if there are no women around who might facilitate such a transfiguration (perhaps, as is so sadly common these days, not even her mother), your daughter can be left with an inexorable sense of the animating effect her beauty has on you.

Allow yourself to hug her when her smile compels it.

Allow that volcanic pride her accomplishments invoke to tell upon your face.

Allow yourself to gasp when she walks into a room, whether it’s to show you her latest smooshed playdoh creation, to ask for $20 to go shopping with her friends, or to announce that she’s engaged to be married, hopefully to a man who holds her beauty in the same towering reverence as you.

There will without question be some readers, most likely male, who will deem all I have written to be an unduly flattering (perhaps even borderline delusional) appraisal of women—my judgement distorted by the necessarily distorting lens of fatherly love. This is quite understandable. Worn down by constant vilification and the callous annihilation of their dreams, many men have come to view the essential female nature as intrinsically, irreparably flawed if not full-blown demonic. Among Liberal White Women, there were plenty who indeed fit the bill, and yet, neither can we ignore that their spitefulness betrays a symptom, both in themselves and in society as a whole, of a gaping, deliberately engineered void.

That is not to say I place unwarranted blame on their fathers, however. It would be flamboyantly unfair (not to mention entirely futile), to imagine that if somehow transported to their pre-9/11, pre-COVID, pre-digitalized world, we would have raised our kids any better. For all the boomer dads who fecklessly let Nickelodeon do the babysitting or who thoughtlessly acquiesced to their child’s request for an iPhone, there were as many dedicated ones busting their asses to afford Christmas presents or to send their girls to college. But whether through complacency or regular old good-but-misguided intentions, the fact remains that it was under these men’s stewardship that a dark and ominous force gained access to the soft, feminine underbelly of humanity.

Fathers today can have no such excuses. God knows, we have our own preoccupations: loneliness, alcoholism, and alimony; child support, suicidal ideation, and the price of gas. No one need remind this author how hard it can get, but we at least have been provided, to a degree surpassing that of all preceding generations, an unimpeded view of the enemy seeking access to our daughters. This at times can feel nigh on irrepressible. It sure as hell seems exquisitely unfair. But so too is it the reality we have been presented with, the course of history dictated by men who, without thanks or reward, without acclaim or even acknowledgment, fought off wolves, rebuilt civilizations, and carried burdens that were not their own. It was through the embracing of such duties that these men proved themselves deserving of the name, while it is far fewer still who do so selflessly and steadfastly enough, to ever rise to the immeasurably more exalted title of “father.”