Women Are Not Made to Penetrate the World
A gentle reminder of what it means for modern women to be the egg, not the sperm, in all matters of life.
As females, we were made to receive.
Life was always meant to happen for us when we made space for it.
It’s inscribed in our origins.
The masculine initiates the journey. He moves first. That’s just how God set it up, the biological default.
Just think of a million overexcited tadpole swimmers, racing with manic urgency down the fallopian hallway in pursuit of this mysterious portal known to be a grand entrance to the human story.
The sperm do all the hustling as nature’s original go-getters, sprinting like tiny Olympians, chasing a place on the leaderboard, probably elbowing each other and doing the absolute most for their one shot at life.
They don’t fully grasp what they’re really running toward, only that they must.
Word is, it’s gonna be worth it.
Meanwhile, the feminine simply waits. She’s the egg, obviously, that portal.
She doesn’t chase after a single one of those giddy swimmers. And she certainly doesn’t hunt for a worthy candidate. She doesn’t go looking for them or even care to take a peek at who’s coming.
The egg just lounges in the serene upper chamber of the hallway, trusting the right one will come along and make the opening chapter happen with her.
After all, she’s still the point in the drama of creation.
Now the sperm swim furiously toward her. Each one is determined to break through her for a chance at a future beginning.
The egg is guarded by layers. They fight to enter. Millions fail, except for one.
And when that one finally crosses the threshold and makes it in (if he's strong, fast and capable enough), that’s when the miracle of transmutation happens.
Life truly begins inviolably, from within, not by force (at least not on her end).
The male penetrates. The female receives.
Even our eggs know better. They sit still and do what they were made to do: pull life inward and make something of it to give back to the world.
But our feminist-brainwashed ego can’t stomach that. It wants to be the sperm.
That inner driver—the one that tells us to chase, conquer and never wait—she’s what we’ll call the Sperminatrix (a sperm-minded dominatrix, just in case you didn’t catch the drift).
We all carry her. She’s the voice in our head that’s been trained by decades of girlboss you-can-do-it propaganda and matriarchal manifestos in the name of empowerment.
And when we let the Sperminatrix in us run the show, we want to be the one who gets there first.
We want to take up space and that can only be done when we bravely, against our own feminine dread (you know, that little voice within that says, “I actually hate doing this though I don’t know why but things have to be done so I’ve got to do this”), initiate, insert and penetrate every domain of life.
The workspace, the relationship, the virtual, the dream.
We headbutt and smash every glass ceiling like it’s the ovum wall. Because the Sperminatrix in our head really makes us think life begins when we force entry.
But of course, we love kidding ourselves.
A break-in? Naw, of course not!
We call it a breakthrough for womanhood, redefined for modern times. We’re proud that everything’s reversed now that we’ve subverted the patriarchy for the future’s sake.
Now it’s time to make sure our calendars stay full.
So we ram headfirst into male-dominated industries the second we leave our graduation by waving our degrees of conquest.
And oh, our STEM credentials? Applause, please, because finally, right?
Just don’t ask us to fix a leaky pipe or carry drywall. That’s not the kind of testosterone work we’re interested in.
We prefer a different kind of grind that supposedly gives us joy that we’d wake up every day and launch ourselves into the world to seize opportunity before anyone else can. Maybe a new title, a raise with extra zeroes, a record-breaking sale, a very BIG deal—hello, we’ve got projections mapped out and targets to hit!
The Sperminatrix whispers: “Just one more promotion, one more contract, one more client, one more shot… maybe then you’ll feel like enough.”
But every so often, we hear it. That unbearable ticking of the biological clock. We laugh it off over brunch. But it somehow keeps us up at night, during the hush of 3 a.m. insomnia, especially after our feed serves up some stranger’s baby shower with a cute gender reveal cake.
We spend the bulk of our fertile years in high-performance sperm mode: in school, in med school, on the terminal PhD route, in the corporation, in the industry and even on the online road to influencing fame.
Eggs can wait, right? At least some of them will still be around at 40. Heck, we don’t even know if we really want kids! They’d slow us down anyway.
But just in case we ever change our minds, we figure our ovaries are just as overachieving as we are. So surely they’ll be able to perform when it’s time to conceive (once we’ve got everything else covered).
Okay, we just need to find a man. We can do this!
But hmm, some things changed.
Now we're the ones texting first. We slide into DMs, shoot our shot, ask him out, book the table, plan the date, send the follow-up and craft the heartfelt closure text with ChatGPT he should’ve sent.
Before we’ve even touched the bread basket, we hit him with: “Just so you know, I don’t need a man for money. I’ve got three income streams and my own condo. I just want someone who’s not intimidated by all that.”
Aren’t we all high-value women?
We don’t hear from him again.
“He’s just playing hard to get,” the Sperminatrix tells us. “Maybe he’s just busy. Take it as a challenge.”
Of course, we don’t take the hint.
We sit in therapy instead, wondering why we always attract avoidant men and whether it’s our dad’s fault.
The answer’s simple: because we’re acting like sperm hunting down the idea of love, not the reality.
But we’d rather not know that.
Eventually, for some of us at least, we make it through to commitment.
There exists a 24-hour emotionally available doormat we somehow manage to propose to.
We call him our partner, though he’s our husband, because that just makes it all feel a little less binary, more inclusive, much equal.
He loves that we’re the one making the money so he can focus on his passion projects and startup that never started.
So we’re the ones making the plans, decisions and money, naturally.
During intimacy, there’s a to-do list in our head. We’re silently hoping this will be over soon so we can reply to those emails and order dinner in.
But let’s be honest. We resent him for not being able to keep up, especially when we’re exhausted from work.
But our inner Sperminatrix tells us we had to “step up.” What we really mean is, “I don’t know how to step back.” We just can’t stop swimming, even at home.
We’re still trying to crack the code on marriage. Still trying to be the best wife but mostly because we’re terrified of being “less than.”
We’re the ones dragging him to therapy, setting the tone, correcting him, commanding that he at least take the trash out, for God’s sake.
And we swear, if he doesn’t change soon, we’ll have to consider our exit strategies. That divorce lawyer’s number is already saved on our phone.
Oh, let’s not forget.
One or two babies came out.
And now we’re even pushing our kids to perform just like us.
There’s no relaxing during playtime because someone, somewhere, is reading a parenting book we haven’t read yet.
We’re trying to win at motherhood too so we can’t even let our kids be kids.
Everything is achievement-oriented, tracked, perfected.
We pay for them to attend the best schools (the dad chauffeurs them to and fro; he’s got time for that)— you know, the kind with a curriculum that promises to “future-proof” them with “21st-century holistic tech skills.”
Anyway, finally got a minute to Netflix. Wish they’d just leave us alone for five seconds. But nope. They have to show us what they did at school.
They finger-paint something vaguely horrifying.
We call it early creative genius. Must be able to monetize that talent one day.
At this point, with family and all, the Sperminatrix living in our head needs a name change.
Because we’re also the sperm and the incubator.
So…the Spermawombinatrix?
Figures. Final boss babe unlocked.
We’re genetically gender-modified super-sperm now.
We’re forward-charging, tunnel-visioned, manic initiators and we’re secretly terrified we won’t make it to whatever “destiny” or “legacy” we think we’re chasing.
God forbid we ever stop swimming. We might feel useless.
Here’s the real tragedy:
We used to be the egg, at least when we were born. But we were raised to be sperm so now we have no idea how to be the egg.
Just imagine it.
A million sperm just lounging at the end of the hallway, sipping electrolyte water, adjusting their gym shorts or gaming on beanbags. Some are starting YouTube channels on the art of stoicism and being sigma; some do drop-shipping, freelance crypto consulting or just “working on themselves”...waiting.
And here comes the poor egg—sweating, frazzled, overdressed and running late—huffing and puffing her way through the fallopian corridor like she’s late for a job interview she didn’t even want.
She’s chasing them. She’s chasing all of them. She’s trying to prove herself to each one.
“Pick me! I swear I’m not like the other eggs! I can do the job better!”
Now seriously.
What do you think happens in that version of the story, where the egg initiates, proves, earns, chases, competes (with only herself, because there are no other eggs with her), and abandons her own design just to win the attention of the very ones who were supposed to come to her…only to end up doing their sperm-y roles and swimming ahead herself?
Meanwhile, biology is just standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, saying to the egg, “You done yet?”
The Spermawombinatrix inside of us…it would rather rewrite our biology than receive it. Because to receive would mean to surrender to the Reality of what is.
Maybe that’s the hardest part because that would mean trusting that our God-given design is fine as it is. But it was the forbidden fruit of fairness and equality that incepted the Spermawombinatrix into our ego…
…and that’s what sparked our war against our own nature and made the egg swim, thinking she’s the sperm.
Reality is that we’re the egg.
Though slightly hidden within the folds of the fallopian tube, cradled in the protective curve of the womb, and by nature, we should’ve no problem waiting.
In our very design, we were made to draw in the life meant for us and receive it with reverence. We know of our own magnetism. And we instinctively know better than to ram through every door, compete to win every race or force our way into spaces that were never ours to begin with.
So no, we’re not here to outswim the sperm.
We’re the egg—the reason the sperm swim toward in the first place.
Let them do all the penetrating in the world.
It was never our job, anyway.