You told yourself you’d be asleep by ten.

Just one chapter to decompress after another day of managing impossible expectations—yours and everyone else’s. But here you are at midnight, completely absorbed in whether a fictional assassin-queen claims both her throne and her heart. And somewhere between the sword fights and the love scenes, tears are rolling down your face.

Not pretty tears. The kind that come from somewhere so deep you forgot it existed.

After sitting with hundreds of driven, ambitious women over the years, I can tell you what’s actually happening here: this isn’t escaping. It’s some of the most sophisticated psychological work available, and you’re doing it in your pajamas.

The Perfect Storm of Modern Womanhood

We need to understand the unique pressure cooker you’re living in.

Seventy-five percent of professional women report work-related burnout compared to 58% of men. We account for 69% of all mental health-related leaves. Eighty-two percent of us experience imposter syndrome. But here’s what makes it worse—these statistics represent women who are objectively successful. The surgeon saving lives. The attorney winning cases. The founder scaling her company. The therapist holding space for trauma all day.

The modern driven woman faces what researchers call “dual pressure.” You’re expected to excel professionally while being the primary emotional caregiver in your relationships. You’re supposed to have it figured out by thirty—career, relationships, possibly children—all while maintaining friendships, health, and making it look effortless.

Is it any wonder your nervous system is screaming for stories where women face impossible odds and actually win?

The Historical Wound: Centuries of Being Told to Wait

Let’s talk about the stories that shaped us before we even knew we were being shaped.

For centuries—I mean centuries—the stories we told about women followed a devastating template: wait beautifully, suffer quietly, be rescued eventually.

Think about it. Really think about the messages embedded in the stories you grew up with.

Cinderella scrubbed floors and accepted abuse until magic arrived—not her own magic, but magic bestowed by someone who deemed her worthy. Snow White fell into a death-like sleep, literally unable to save herself, waiting for a kiss she couldn’t consent to. Sleeping Beauty’s entire story is about being unconscious—the ultimate passivity—until a man decides to wake her. Rapunzel sat in a tower, growing her hair, waiting. The Little Mermaid gave up her voice—her literal voice—for a chance at love.

These weren’t just bedtime stories.

They were instruction manuals.

The message was consistent and crushing: good girls wait. Good girls endure. Good girls don’t save themselves—they create the conditions where someone else might want to save them. Be beautiful enough, pure enough, patient enough, and maybe—maybe—rescue will come.

But here’s what’s even more insidious: when we did get “strong” female characters, they were often punished for that strength. The evil queens, the wicked stepmothers, the powerful witches—they had agency, they took action, they wielded power.

And they were the villains.

The message? Female power is dangerous, corrupting, and must be destroyed.

Think about the witch in every fairy tale. She’s powerful, independent, often living alone (god forbid), making her own choices. And she’s evil. She must be burned, drowned, pushed into an oven, defeated. The only good woman is a powerless woman waiting for rescue. The only safe woman is one without agency.

This narrative imprisonment didn’t end with fairy tales. Move forward through history and watch how it evolved but never really changed. The Victorian angel in the house—beautiful, pure, devoted to others, with no desires of her own. The 1950s perfect housewife—fulfilled entirely through service to others. Even as women gained legal rights, our stories lagged decades behind.

The 1980s gave us “strong female characters” who were really just male characters in female bodies—no emotional complexity, no relationships, no vulnerability. As if the only way to be strong was to reject everything coded as feminine.

The 1990s and early 2000s? We got the “cool girl”—tough enough to hang with the boys but still beautiful, never threatening, never actually taking up space. She could kick ass in leather pants, but she better not have feelings about it.

And here’s what I see constantly in my practice: we internalized all of it.

Every driven woman I work with carries some version of this wound.

The surgeon who can’t delegate because asking for help feels like the ultimate feminine weakness. The attorney who apologizes before every assertion. The founder who downplays her victories because taking credit feels dangerous.

We learned that female power had to be hidden, minimized, channeled only into service of others, or dressed up as something else entirely.

Even our “empowered” narratives came with asterisks. You can be successful (but don’t threaten anyone). You can be strong (but remain beautiful and feminine). And you can lead (but make sure everyone likes you). You can have power (but only if you use it for others, never yourself).

The psychological impact of centuries of these narratives is what researchers call “collective trauma”—wounds carried in the cultural psyche, passed down through stories, expectations, and the very structure of how we understand what women can be.

This is why romantasy hits like medicine we didn’t know we needed.

Why These Particular Warriors Hit Different

Aelin Galathynius: When Your Fire Has Been Called Too Much

Aelin doesn’t apologize for being fire incarnate.

After devastating trauma—watching her parents murdered, being enslaved, tortured—she doesn’t become smaller or quieter. She becomes Celaena Sardothien, the world’s greatest assassin. Then she reclaims her birthright as Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen. She’s dramatic, vain about her appearance, fiercely loyal, and utterly unapologetic about taking up space.

For women who’ve been told they’re “too much”—too intense, too ambitious, too emotional—Aelin offers something revolutionary. She shows that your “too much” might actually be your power. That fire you’ve been taught to dim? Maybe it’s meant to burn kingdoms down and forge new ones.

When you read about Aelin refusing to minimize herself, something in your chest cracks open. Your nervous system is practicing something it may never have experienced: existing at full volume without apology.

Nesta Archeron: The Permission to Be Difficult

Nesta is not likeable, and that’s precisely the point.

She’s prickly, angry, isolating. She pushes away everyone who tries to help. She drinks too much, fucks too casually, and rages at anyone who dares to care. She’s the “difficult” one, the one who won’t just get over her trauma and smile.

Sound familiar? Right. That one.

For driven women who’ve perfected the art of high-functioning depression—showing up flawlessly while dying inside—here’s what Nesta offers: radical permission. Permission to not be okay. Permission to be angry about what happened to you. And permission to heal messily, imperfectly, on your own timeline.

Her healing doesn’t come through being saved but through training her body into strength, finding female friendship that accepts her edges, and discovering that her rage can be transformed into power.

When you sob through A Court of Silver Flames, your nervous system recognizes something it’s been starving for: the possibility that you don’t have to make your healing pretty for anyone else’s comfort.

Manon Blackbeak and the Thirteen: When Female Loyalty Has Teeth

Manon leads the Thirteen—a coven of warrior witches bound by choice, not blood.

They don’t soften each other. They sharpen each other. Their loyalty isn’t based on emotional processing or vulnerability—it’s based on competence, respect, and the willingness to die for one another. Manon herself is iron teeth and cold calculation, a leader who shows that feminine power doesn’t require warmth.

What I’ve noticed over years of watching women navigate female friendships: we’re exhausted by the expectation that all relationships require emotional labor. The Thirteen offer a different template. What if your friendships could be about making each other more powerful, not more palatable? What if loyalty looked like standing back-to-back in battle rather than endless coffee dates dissecting feelings?

When you read about the Thirteen’s fierce devotion, your body keeps the score—and it just recognized an ally. You’re seeing that female bonds can be forged in strength rather than softness. That coldness isn’t a deficiency but a different kind of power.

Amren: Ancient Power That Needs No Explanation

Fifteen thousand years old. Drinks blood. Hoards jewels. Explains nothing.

Amren doesn’t justify her power or make it comfortable for others to digest. She simply exists, ancient and terrifying and completely unbothered by others’ opinions. She states facts without qualifiers, owns her knowledge without apology, takes up space without measuring it.

I can’t tell you how many women have told me they read Amren and finally understood something crucial: the exhaustion of constantly translating yourself for others’ comfort. Every “I could be wrong, but…” Every “This might be silly, however…”

Amren is medicine for that particular wound. She represents the possibility of existing without apology. Your power predates their opinion of it.

When you read about Amren sipping blood from a jeweled cup while stating uncomfortable truths, that ancient part of you that predates the bullshit remembers what it’s like to be completely uninterested in making yourself digestible.

Poppy: From Maiden to Goddess

Poppy begins as the Maiden—literally veiled, untouched, kept ignorant “for her own protection.”

How many of us were kept small, uninformed about our own power, told our limitations were for our safety? That precise feeling. Poppy’s journey from sheltered Maiden to awakened goddess mirrors what many driven women experience: the shocking discovery that everything you were told about your fragility was a lie.

Her evolution shows that innocence isn’t weakness and that discovering your power later doesn’t mean it’s less valid. The pattern is so consistent it’s almost boring: women who came to their strength through circuitous routes, who feel “behind” because they’re only now learning to claim space.

Poppy demonstrates that late blooming can be explosive blooming.

When you read about Poppy discovering she can level armies, your body recognizes a truth your mind isn’t ready for: your own power might be far greater than anyone let you believe.

The Neuroscience of Reading Your Way to Freedom

Here’s where it gets fascinating from a clinical perspective.

When you read about Aelin reclaiming her throne, the same part of your brain fires as if you’re doing it yourself. Not metaphorically. Literally. Your brain is rehearsing revolution from your reading chair.

Mirror neurons—they’re the reason you wince when someone stubs their toe—activate when you read about these warriors claiming power. You’re practicing empowerment at a neurological level while you’re in bed with snacks.

The fantasy elements? They don’t argue with your defenses. Magic doesn’t debate whether change is possible. It just shows you a woman shooting flames from her hands and lets your nervous system remember what power feels like before your logical brain can interfere.

And the romance—here’s what’s wild—it triggers oxytocin release, which enhances neuroplasticity. Your brain becomes more capable of change. Those swoony scenes aren’t just fun; they’re rewiring your neural pathways.

Every time you read these books, you’re laying down new tracks alongside the old ones. The ones that say power requires apology? You’re building alternatives that say power can simply exist. The ones that insist you must be soft to be loved? You’re creating pathways where fierce and cherished coexist.

The Publishing Revolution Nobody Saw Coming

Sarah J. Maas’s books generated $104 million in 2023, surpassing Harry Potter. Romantasy videos have 800 million TikTok views.

But here’s what matters: this surge includes women in their thirties, forties, beyond. Women with serious responsibilities finding something in these pages they didn’t know they were looking for.

You’re not alone in this. You’re part of a massive reclamation project.

Stop Calling It Guilty Pleasure

When you minimize these books as “trashy escape,” you’re dismissing sophisticated psychological work.

What happens in therapy? Pattern recognition. Understanding how early experiences shape current behavior. Building new neural pathways. Practicing different responses. Integrating fragmented parts of self.

What happens when you read romantasy?

Literally all of that.

With dragons and magic and iron teeth.

The Warrior Was Always There

After all these years watching women transform through stories, here’s what I understand:

These books resonate not because they’re showing you something foreign, but because they’re reflecting something that already exists within you. Something your circumstances required you to hide, minimize, or channel only into achievement.

That part wanting to stop explaining yourself? She’s real.

That part exhausted from shrinking so others feel bigger? She’s valid.

That part wanting to be powerful and cherished? She’s not asking too much.

The warrior heroines you’re drawn to aren’t introducing you to strength—they’re reminding you of strength that centuries of stories taught you to bury.

What This Means for Your Healing

Next time you reach for one of these novels, notice what happens in your body. Which warrior makes you feel seen? Which one makes you cry? And which one makes you feel dangerous in the best way?

Pay attention to what these characters get to do that you won’t let yourself do. What they receive that you’ve convinced yourself you don’t need. What they claim that you’ve been afraid to want.

Stop apologizing for these books. Start recognizing them for what they are—a reclamation project.

You’re not escaping your life. You’re gathering templates for living it fully.

What thousands of hours have taught me is simple but revolutionary: the distance between who you are and who these heroines are isn’t vast.

The only real difference?

They’ve already given themselves permission to exist fully.

Maybe it’s time you did too.

 

Medical Disclaimer