I had one goal this summer. “Teach yourself a lesson and change your perspective.”

Intentionality became everything. Hide my debit card and go on a spending freeze for two weeks. Start a conversation with a complete stranger. Create a healthy meal that is doable on a minimum-wage budget. Ride my bike everywhere no matter the weather.

And all of these things were good and perfectly relevant to my cause, but none of them surprised me. I knew that cutting my spending would teach me that I don’t always have to have “new things.” I knew that having a conversation with a stranger would be intimidating at first, but ultimately impactful. I knew that making a healthy meal on a minimum-wage budget would make it painfully clear how difficult it is to live a healthy life on such a low minimum wage. I knew that riding my bike everywhere would make me more fit and give me a heightened appreciation for the value of time and shelter. Thus, I suppose intentionality does not always guarantee the desired result.

I gave up on the idea of changing my perspective rather quickly, underscoring my dislike of setting goals only to be disappointed. And life went on as it always does until one day, something I thought I knew to be truth was abruptly taken from me.

I grew up scared of the kitchen. I hated knives, I hated fire and I hated raw meat because knives cut, fire burned, and raw meat made me far too conscious about the food I ate. As I got older, I ventured into the kitchen only to learn that I was messy, frazzled, and had a profound inability to seamlessly execute even the simplest of recipes. Disaster would be nothing more than a kind euphemism.

I became content with my inability to cook because I arrived at the conclusion that the kitchen was a place for women who couldn’t make it in the real world. Cooking and homemaking at large was a cop-out, an excuse not to have a career. I would code instead of cook and to me that meant that I would ultimately be a more successful woman.

This summer I was confronted with a change of heart. Working two jobs with long hours, eating out became a twice a day occurrence and I quickly tired of sticky orange chicken, greasy burgers, and salads drenched in thousand island. One evening, I took to the kitchen for the first time in a while and began to cook.

I measured and poured and mixed and stirred and spiced and plated and served. And I liked it. For the first time in years I delved into what I had for so-long condemned.

And while frosting cupcakes in the middle of the night on a rainy Tuesday, something finally clicked.

The kitchen is a powerful place. Feeding people is profoundly important and impactful. Being a provider is empowering. But most importantly, being domestic does not make you passive. It does not compromise your female autonomy, intelligence, or strength.

I think at times there is a big fault in the feminist movement. While we fight for the freedom for all women, we sometimes neglect to remember that what each of us wants may be different. Women do not need to abandon traditionally female hobbies if they enjoy them. The issue arises when women are forced to do things by friends, family, and societal pressures at large.

Cheerleading is a sport, homemaking is an incredibly respectable career, and wearing makeup doesn’t make you self-absorbed. Domesticity does not equate to passivity and strong femininity is not negated by adherence to traditionally female careers and interests.

To my cupcakes, I owe you a revelation.