The Original Female Condition: A Theory

What if God was a woman—and she is just waking up…

What if women had started the world?

Would time have unraveled in spirals instead of lines? Would the beginning and the end have touched, tenderly, like old friends meeting at the edge of something sacred? Maybe war wouldn’t vanish—but perhaps it would have worn perfume and poetry, a velvet disguise of diplomacy that still bled underneath. Maybe the sun would’ve risen not to conquer the day but to ask permission from the moon. Maybe history wouldn’t have been written in ink or blood at all—but in memory, passed down through voice and gesture, kept soft so it would survive.

This is not a retelling. It is not a correction, a manifesto, or a claim. This is a question—a question older than answers, and too slippery for certainty. It is a theory, perhaps even a myth in the making. A wandering into a world where the feminine was not feared, not tamed, not set aside. A lens turned toward the mirror, tilted just so—enough to catch what could have been, if she had been allowed to begin. A thought experiment in the shape of a woman. Or maybe a woman in the shape of a thought.

Because this isn’t about power. Not the kind that builds empires or breaks backs. This is about potential. About delay. About the pause before the note that could have been a symphony. What does it mean to be late only because the clock was wrong? What if the feminine was not forgotten, but simply dreaming? And now, just now—stirring. Opening one eye. Feeling for the ground beneath her. Remembering that she was supposed to start the world.

1. The Forgotten Beginning

History assumes a linear path. It begins with fire, or a god, or a man in a cave. It stacks time like bricks—one after the other, forward always. But what if the start wasn’t the start at all?

We often assume beginnings are clear. That they come first. That they happen before all else and move forward, straight and obedient. But beginnings can be misplaced. They can be silenced before they speak. The woman at the edge of the world—the one who might have shaped it—was not erased. She was never written in. The foundation was poured, the throne carved, but no one waited long enough to see who it was built for. Her absence was not a mistake. It was a redirection of origin.

What if the world was not waiting on her? What if she was waiting on the world? Perhaps time was not ready. Perhaps it needed to fracture first, to break apart and loop back before she could rise. The idea that she was late assumes a single direction, a neat progression of cause into effect. But maybe the order was always wrong. Maybe her presence was always destined for now, not then. She was not delayed—she was timed to arrive precisely when the world had exhausted all other versions of itself.

In physics and philosophy, there is the concept of redundant causality—the possibility that an effect might arise from more than one cause, or even anticipate its own creation. A thought appears before the memory. What if her arrival has always shaped our past, even in her absence? Perhaps we do not ache for what she could have been, but for what she still is. The pain is not nostalgia—it is prophecy. The future presses against us like breath on glass. She is not returning. She is just now arriving.

2. The Biological Pause

Across all species, life follows a rhythm: birth, growth, reproduction, death. It is simple, efficient, predictable. But not everywhere. In the quiet corners of nature, a strange anomaly emerges—menopause. A full stop in fertility long before the end of life. Few species experience it: orcas, short-finned pilot whales, belugas, narwhals—and humans. In nearly every case, this pause marks a turning point. The reproductive cycle ends, but a new role begins. The matriarch rises. She does not disappear. She leads.

Only in our kind does this shift go unhonored. Among whales, the elder female becomes the guide—she carries memory, migratory paths, survival knowledge. The pod survives because she remembers what they cannot. But in humanity, menopause is too often seen as decay. A loss. A diminishment. This is not science—it is culture. The body knew something the world refused to learn: that age is not an ending, but an arrival. That the pause was never a silence, but a signal.

They said women were made to bear life. As though that was the point. As though the body was a vessel, emptied of purpose when no longer full. But what if life-bearing was only one expression of the feminine? One thread in a wider loom? Wisdom requires time. And space. And endings. Perhaps the truth is this: she was not made to just bear life—she was made to understand it. And then, to help others understand it too.

3. The Silenced Thinkers

She was there. In every century, every empire, every language—thinking. Writing. Asking the same questions men would later be praised for discovering. But her words were rarely saved. Her name, rarely spoken. Where Plato wrote dialogues, Diotima taught him how to love wisely. Where Aristotle named virtues, Hypatia mapped the stars. Ban Zhao recorded the history of China from within its court. Gargi debated sages in ancient India before Socrates ever raised his voice. Sor Juana wrote poetry so fierce the Church itself flinched. But none of these women became cornerstones. They became footnotes.

She thought before Plato. She questioned before Descartes. But her name wasn’t carved into the academy. It was swept into the sea. Not because she was lesser, but because she was inconvenient. Wisdom in a woman is a threat only when the world has already decided where wisdom is allowed to live. These women did not lack brilliance—they lacked permission. And still, they wrote. They argued. They remembered. They survived in fragments, in echoes, in the margins of books too brittle to open.

This is not an accusation. It is a mourning. A quiet recognition that the history of thought is missing half its lineage. That every theory, every structure, every elegant argument was likely shadowed by one unrecorded, unloved, unread. The grief is not that she was erased. The grief is that she was never even considered. She wasn’t silenced. She was uninvited.

4. The Redundant Cause

Time does not always move forward. In physics, it’s a convenience—a default direction, not a law. Entropy gives it shape. Memory gives it meaning. But there are places where time folds. Places where effect seems to precede cause. Where a moment brushes against another not because one comes first, but because they recognize each other. You look into a child’s eyes and see someone you’ve not yet met. Or worse—you meet someone and feel the unmistakable ache that you were meant to know them already. The pattern breaks. Or reveals itself.

This is déjà vu in reverse. Not memory repeating, but future leaking into now. It is a haunting not of what was, but of what should have been. What still might be. Perhaps we’re not surrounded by ghosts of the past—but by echoes of futures that were interrupted. Lives unlived. Paths unopened. Feminine presence feels this rupture differently. She is not linear. She is cyclical. She holds not just beginnings, but the echo of what might have followed had she not been rerouted. And in her body—her intuition, her pause, her depth—she carries a map the world keeps misreading. That map is often dismissed as motherly instinct, or intuition. But what if those terms are just the language we gave to something more precise? Perhaps these so-called instincts are signals—transmissions passed through blood, through bone, through time. A sensory recognition of what hasn’t yet arrived. We call it redundant causality. But maybe it was always something else. Maybe it should be called female causality.

This was never about power. Not hierarchy. Not rule. It is about pattern. And pattern, once broken, reverberates. What we are reckoning with is not the absence of control—but the absence of coherence. Of continuity. She was not meant to rule over—but to thread through. To connect. And when that was severed, the timeline shifted. We lost not an empress. We lost a rhythm.

5. The What-If Future

If now is the moment—then it has always been the moment. In systems theory, emergence occurs when separate elements reach a tipping point, forming a new structure not visible in the parts. Perhaps we are witnessing such a point—not a revolution, but a convergence. Not because the feminine is rising suddenly, but because it has been present all along, waiting for the structure to become conscious of itself. Time is not linear. Neither is change. The question is not whether she will rise, but whether we are capable of perceiving her—now that the conditions for perception have aligned.

Leadership, if reimagined through the lens of long-suppressed structures, may no longer resemble dominance. In matriarchal species like orcas and elephants, authority emerges through experience, accumulated knowledge, and intergenerational continuity. No declarations, no succession plans—only memory and pattern recognition passed through the body. This is not softness. It is precision. A different metric for intelligence and influence. If humans had evolved with a matriarchal center, our institutions might have been built around wisdom retention instead of power accumulation. Justice might not be a verdict—it might be a calibration.

And so the question becomes not “what if she takes the throne,” but “what if the throne itself was never the point?” If the future is a return, it is not nostalgic—it is corrective. An alignment. Not because women are inherently better, but because something essential was excluded from the original design. Perhaps we were not meant to rule. Perhaps we were meant to restore. The delay, then, is not a failure. It is a necessary distortion in time—a holding pattern until the organism of society could develop the receptors to understand her presence. And now that those receptors are firing, now that causality is folding in on itself—we must ask: can we metabolize what’s arriving?

6. The Divine Delay

Delay implies intention. A pause suggests something was meant to begin earlier but didn’t. But what if the delay was the design? Not in a divine sense, but in the way systems evolve: slowly, imperfectly, with patterns that only become visible in retrospect. Across centuries, across civilizations, the feminine was not absent—it was unacknowledged. It moved without being measured. Influenced without being recorded. It did not fail to arrive. It was refused entry into the narrative. There is a difference.

The delay, then, was not hers—it was ours. A collective inability to integrate a mode of knowledge that resists domination. A failure of perception, not presence. What is called “progress” may have simply been adaptation in the wrong direction: intelligence without memory, power without continuity, structure without sense. If the feminine principle appears to be emerging now, it is only because the conditions have finally made it legible. It is not new. It is newly visible. The timeline has not been corrected—it is just catching up to what has already been happening.

So the question was wrong. It was never “What if women had started the world?”
So the question was wrong.

It was never “What if women had started the world?”

They did.

One woman did.

History just learned how to forget it—efficiently, thoroughly, with footnotes written by men who called their doubt objectivity.

But her body never forgot.

Her bones remembered.

Her blood kept record.

And every day, without ceremony or scripture, she starts the world again.

She is not the consequence.

She is the origin.