Why Is Womanhood So Contested?

The Principle of Justice and Dignity

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking more deeply about justice and dignity—what they mean to me, and how consistently they are lived out in the world around us. As a Christian, I hold a deep belief in the inherent worth of every person. I believe true justice is not shaped by ideology or allegiance, but by a commitment to fairness, courage, and care for the vulnerable.

I try to hold my convictions with humility. I don’t believe in imposing beliefs on others, yet I do believe we have a responsibility to speak up when people are harmed. For me, the challenge has been learning how to do both at the same time: remaining faithful to truth while acting with compassion and restraint.

This sounds simple in theory. I’m learning how difficult it is in practice.

As Scripture reminds us in Micah 6:8, we are called “to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” I find myself returning to this often—especially when justice feels uneven or difficult to apply consistently.

Noticing the Contradictions

As I’ve reflected more on conversations around women’s rights, I’ve begun to notice some uncomfortable tensions. Again and again, I see moments where the principles we speak about—justice, compassion, and human dignity—are applied unevenly. Some stories are elevated and defended with clarity, while others are quietly set aside or treated as too complicated to confront.

What has been hardest for me to sit with is the realisation that women themselves can sometimes, consciously or unconsciously, contribute to this imbalance. Often this happens within strong cultural, political, or ideological frameworks that reward loyalty and discourage dissent. Still, the outcome can be that policies, silences, or justifications end up harming other women.

One moment that stayed with me was in the aftermath of the October attacks in Israel carried out by Hamas. Reports described women being taken hostage and subjected to extreme violence. These accounts were widely available, yet in many public conversations—particularly among pro‑Palestinian advocates—the suffering of Israeli women seemed to receive far less attention than the suffering of civilians in Gaza.

I want to be clear: the suffering of Gaza’s civilians is real and devastating. Holding space for that should never be optional. What unsettled me was the sense that acknowledging one injustice required the minimisation of another. I found myself struggling with the idea that compassion could become selective—that some women’s suffering could be treated as secondary depending on the political narrative being defended.

I noticed a similar tension closer to home during the 2022 federal election in Sydney, particularly in the seat of Warringah. Katherine Deves ran as a Liberal candidate and became a highly controversial figure due to her views on women’s sport and single‑sex spaces. She argued that biological sex should remain central in these contexts. Her opponent, Zali Steggall, a teal independent, took a different position, emphasising inclusion and broader definitions of equality.

What struck me wasn’t simply that two women disagreed. Women disagree all the time, and rightly so. What troubled me was how quickly the conversation hardened into opposing camps, as though there were only two acceptable ways to speak about women’s rights—and any attempt at nuance was treated as hostility or harm. I remember feeling unsettled by how easily complexity disappeared, replaced by slogans and certainty.

More broadly, I’ve noticed how these tensions continue to surface in Australian public life around questions of sex, gender, and identity. There is still no shared understanding of what it means to define a “woman” across all contexts, particularly in law, sport, and public policy. Different political leaders and parties approach this question from very different perspectives, attempting to balance biological realities, gender identity, inclusion, and rights.

Watching these debates unfold, I’ve often felt that the lack of consensus is interpreted not as complexity, but as moral failure. Women in politics are frequently expected to stand united on issues affecting women, yet these debates reveal how unrealistic that expectation can be. When women take different positions, disagreement is sometimes framed as betrayal rather than good‑faith argument.

I want to say this clearly: I don’t share these reflections to blame women. I’m increasingly aware of how much pressure—cultural, ideological, relational—shapes the positions people take. Fear of exclusion, desire for belonging, and deeply held beliefs all play a role. Still, I can’t ignore the impact of these inconsistencies. When certain injustices are overlooked, the consequences can include silence, marginalisation, and, in some parts of the world, ongoing harm or violence against women.

Simply noticing these contradictions has been confronting for me. But I’m beginning to believe that this kind of honest awareness is an essential first step toward a more consistent and compassionate approach to justice.

Why Double Standards Persist

I don’t think there are easy explanations. Human societies are complex, and moral clarity is often clouded by ideology, fear, ambition, or group loyalty. Even people with good intentions can struggle to see injustice clearly when it threatens their sense of identity or belonging.

Recognising this doesn’t excuse harm—but it does help me approach these tensions with greater humility. I’m learning that naming injustice and acknowledging human vulnerability must exist together.

A Spiritual Perspective

For me, faith is not about standing above others with certainty, but about being willing to change—starting with myself. Growth, both personal and collective, often begins with discomfort. Even when situations feel deeply unjust, I believe there is still an opportunity to respond with courage and integrity.

As I sit with these reflections, I feel called to speak up for those whose voices are silenced, to defend human dignity without forcing my beliefs onto others, and to remain committed to truth even when narratives are conflicting or inconvenient. I don’t experience this as a call to judgment, but to alignment—between belief and action, conviction and compassion.

Thoughtful Action

I keep asking myself what faithfulness looks like in the face of these contradictions. For now, it means paying attention—especially to the moments that make me uncomfortable. It means resisting the urge to accept easy answers, and being honest about where silence feels safer than speaking.

It also means wanting to defend the dignity and rights of all women consistently and courageously, while choosing dialogue over dismissal and understanding over outrage. I’m learning that conviction does not require coercion, and respect does not require agreement.

Closing Reflection

I don’t believe that respect requires agreement, but I do believe it requires honesty. My own view is that no one can redefine what a woman is without doing real harm, even when the intentions are framed as compassionate or progressive.

What I cannot ignore is this: why is there such fierce controversy over what a woman is, while there is no equivalent debate about what a man is?

If equality is truly our goal, why does womanhood alone seem so open to revision?

When the World Feels Too Loud, and God Feels Too Quiet

Over the past couple of months, my mind has felt scattered and heavy. I’ve felt let down by family, overwhelmed by world events, and strangely alone — even in my faith. There are moments when it feels as though God has stepped back, leaving me to make sense of things on my own.

Just before Christmas, the Bondi tragedy shook me deeply. It drained the joy from the season and left a sadness that lingered. Innocent people lost their lives in a public place — families going about ordinary moments that should have been safe. No explanation can soften that reality.

What troubled me further was the sense that warnings had been given, yet nothing meaningful was done to prevent it. Afterwards came apologies, statements, and carefully worded responses — but very little reassurance that lessons had truly been learned. It left me wondering whether our leaders are more focused on protecting their own positions than protecting people.

At the same time, I witnessed something that stayed with me.

In the midst of fear and grief, the Jewish community continued to shine their light. During Hanukkah — a festival that commemorates resilience, rededication, and hope — families lit their menorahs, not in defiance, but in faith. Light was chosen over despair. Continuity over terror.

That quiet faith matters.

Scripture tells us, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). Time and again, the Jewish people have carried that light through history — not by denying suffering, but by refusing to let it extinguish hope.

This is something the world desperately needs to remember.

As communities across Australia expressed fear for their safety, what distressed me most was not the fear itself — fear is human — but the silence that often accompanies it when it is happening to someone else. When concern only becomes public once it affects “us,” something essential is lost.

I want to be clear: collective blame helps no one. Entire communities cannot — and should not — be judged by the actions or words of extremists. Most people want to live peacefully, raise their families, and belong. But silence in the face of hatred — wherever it appears — allows the loudest and most destructive voices to define everyone else.

As a Christian, this weighs heavily on me. Christianity calls us to love, to serve, and to shine light into darkness. Jesus reminds us, “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden ” (Matthew 5:14). That call is not abstract — it demands courage, integrity, and responsibility.

Many Christians live this quietly every day, helping families through hardship without conditions, recognition, or expectation. Love like that is costly. It does not demand agreement, only humanity.

What grieves me is not difference, but disrespect. Not diversity, but ingratitude mixed with resentment. True coexistence requires mutual respect — not the erasing of faith or culture, but honouring the values that sustain one another.

So why am I writing this?

Because I am tired of pretending everything is fine.

Because I am grieving a loss of trust — in leaders, in institutions, and sometimes even in God.

Because I believe peace requires courage, not slogans.

And because the light we need will not come from shouting, but from those willing to stand quietly, faithfully, and truthfully — even when it is hard.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21).

I am still praying. Still questioning. Still asking God where He is in all of this — and what He asks of me now.

But I hold onto this: light, once lit, is never wasted.