Her hair is perfectly coiffed. Her lipstick looks almost tattooed on (not that she’d ever admit to that), and she’s making sourdough from scratch. An adorable toddler clings to her leg as she gives the camera a knowing smile.
I watch the video twice. It’s barely a minute long, underscored by a soothing — maybe slightly patronising — voiceover. Then I scroll to the comments. I never leave one myself; I’m a silent observer to both the devotion and the disdain.
Only then do I move on… to her next TikTok video.
Meanwhile, my hair hasn’t been washed in five days. I’ve got a bag of prawn cocktail crisps balanced on my stomach, and I’m wearing joggers that are now, objectively, too small.
Safe to say, I’m not in the same league as this creator. But maybe I am the target audience.
Creators like Nara Smith, who famously makes cereal from scratch over the course of a working day, and Alexia Delarosa, who documents homeschooling her very young children, have built huge audiences around hyper-domestic, ultra-feminine lifestyles. Then there’s Hannah Neeleman, better known as Ballerina Farm, whose life — and the scrutiny surrounding it — recently made headlines following a Times profile.
TikTok content
This world feels both aspirational and deeply controversial. And now, it’s even inspiring fiction.
In Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke, an Instagram tradwife influencer wakes up in the pioneer era she romanticises online, only to discover the reality is far less aesthetic without modern comforts. Butter takes a full day to churn. Laundry leaves her hands raw. Beige linen gives way to coarse, unforgiving cotton.
It’s a classic “be careful what you wish for” narrative, but it also taps into something deeper: our cultural fixation with tradwives, and what that obsession says about us.
Following its release, Yesteryear has also been gaining traction in online book communities. On Reddit in particular, readers have been dissecting its take on tradwife culture across multiple forums, with some threads even sparking renewed interest in tradwife content itself. The novel was selected as an April 2026 Book of the Month pick — a platform with around 37,000 weekly visitors — further cementing its role in pushing the conversation into the mainstream. In other words, this isn’t just a passing TikTok trend; it’s a cultural moment that’s bleeding into how we read, watch and think.
So, why are we so hooked?
Why are we so obsessed with tradwives?
In Yesteryear, the protagonist Natalie is both idolised and criticised, and crucially, her critics fuel her success just as much as her fans. That tension feels familiar.
According to Shannon, a young producer in the novel, some women even view tradwife influencers as a kind of “feminist icon” — not as escapism, but as a roadmap to “freedom.”
Psychotherapist and author Eloise Skinner offers a more grounded explanation. She describes the trend as a reaction to burnout: a pushback against hustle culture and the “girlboss” era, where ambition has become exhausting rather than empowering. It’s not necessarily about submission; it’s about relief.
Historian and content creator Katie Kennedy (aka The History Gossip) is quick to point out that this longing isn’t new.
“Every generation romanticises the past,” she explains. “But now it’s happening through aesthetic culture — cottagecore, Regency TikTok, the ‘soft life’.”
The problem? It’s highly selective.
“Yes, the corsets, candlelight and handwritten letters are a vibe,” she says. “But the lack of autonomy, legal restrictions, and the fact your husband could have you committed to an asylum? Not so much.”
Ultimately, Kennedy believes tradwife content thrives because it offers something increasingly rare: certainty.
In an unstable job market, a chaotic housing crisis, and a world that feels like it’s constantly shifting, these videos present a life that looks simple, structured — and meaningful.
Even if it’s largely performative.
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Do we actually want to be tradwives?
There’s a theory that we’re shaped by the five people we spend the most time with, which is slightly alarming when you consider your chaotic group chat.
But what about the content we consume?
If I watch enough “75 Hard” videos, will I suddenly become disciplined? If I binge private chef content, will I start cooking elaborate meals? And if I keep watching tradwives… will I start craving a hyper-traditional life with a dominant husband like Tyson from MAFS Australia? (Shudder.)
Probably not. The truth is, we’re not desperate to become tradwives — we’re just fascinated by them.
Skinner suggests looking closer at what specifically draws us in. “For those who feel the pull towards the tradwife lifestyle, it’s worth asking what aspects are appealing,” she explains. “It might reflect exhaustion with work, or a lack of purpose — needs that could be met in other ways.”
In other words, it’s not about wanting the life. It’s about wanting what we think that life represents.
Is it wrong to enjoy tradwife content?
You are not the content you consume, but you are contributing to its success.
Even passive engagement matters. Hate-watching still drives views. Watching “ironically” still feeds the algorithm. The more attention tradwife content gets, the more it’s amplified, regardless of whether that attention is positive or critical.
And that has consequences.
“The danger is that it turns real hardship into a lifestyle trend,” Kennedy says. “Stripping away the context risks normalising systems that were deeply unequal.”
She continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I dream about strutting around in the 1810s having an enemies-to-lovers situation with my own Mr Darcy, but when historical elements are diluted into an aesthetic, it can flatten those realities into something decorative which makes it easier to forget just how hard-won many modern freedoms actually are.”
When history becomes aesthetic, its harsher realities are softened, or erased entirely.
From Adam Driver's alleged behaviour on the set of Girls to Dunham's experience of medical misogyny.
More broadly, tradwife culture also feeds into a familiar dynamic: women being pitted against each other. Tradwives versus “career women.” Mothers versus the childfree. Progressive women versus conservatives. It’s a divide that benefits no one, except, arguably, the structures that keep women competing rather than questioning the system itself.
In Yesteryear, Natalie remains fixated on her college roommate-turned-rival, constantly comparing their lives. And that feels like the real crux of it: we’re so busy watching — and judging — each other that we forget to live our own lives.
Yes, it can be irritating to watch a perfectly polished woman in a checkered apron talk about “feminine energy” like it’s a moral high ground. But skipping her video will have far more impact than angrily sending it to every group chat you’re in.
Alternatively, you could accept that you enjoy this content — and ask yourself why. Because for me, it’s probably not about wanting that life. It’s about the fact that, lately, I haven’t felt particularly “divine feminine” at all, thanks to weight gain, breakups, and hustling until my eyes start twitching. I don't think I need to move to a farm and give up my rabbit vibrator, but maybe I do a little less screen time and a little more self-love.
