The Sisterhood Wound: Women's Competition Hides Patriarchy

I remember the kitchen long before I understood power. I was eight or nine, old enough to read a room and know when something mattered. After the holiday meal, after plates were cleared and the men retreated to the living room, loosening belts, turning on the television, the women gathered. My aunts. My nonna. Sisters and sisters-in-law. I didn’t yet have language for what I was witnessing, but I understood it intuitively. There was warmth. Ease. A rhythm. And the most beautiful sense of unspoken belonging. Hands moved instinctively, drying dishes, pouring coffee, touching shoulders in passing. Stories overlapped and made sense. Complaints softened into laughter. Support appeared without being asked. I was told the men held the power. And externally, they did. But even then, I sensed something deeper unfolding in that kitchen. The women held a different kind of power. Not the kind that announces itself, but the kind that sustains life. The kind that makes magic. There were trays of food everywhere. Mountains of it. Platters of pasta. Roasted meats. Loaves of bread still warm. Cannoli dusted with sugar. Biscotti. Amaretti. Fig cookies. Things appearing faster than they could possibly have been made. Creation never stopped. And the women orchestrated it all without urgency or chaos, guided by an embodied knowing...