Just when you thought we’d left Stepford wives in the dust, the internet pulled out a gingham apron and said, not so fast. The “tradwife” is back—baking from scratch, submitting to her husband and going viral while doing it.
On the surface, it’s all cottagecore coziness and vintage vibes. But beneath the sourdough starters and soft-focus homemaking tips, the tradwife movement is peddling something more potent: a curated return to “traditional values,” framed as peace in a chaotic world and presented as the ultimate female fulfillment.
This isn’t just about homemaking hacks. It’s lifestyle branding with an ideological twist.
According to a 2024 study in Gender & Society, tradwife influencers are gaining ground by selling a vision of womanhood that’s “simultaneously nostalgic and politically charged.” The study calls it what it is: antifeminist ideology, rebranded with warm lighting and a Bible verse.
And people are buying it. As of early 2025, #tradwife has more than 175 million views on TikTok. The content ranges from retro homemaking tutorials to sermons on submission—often laced with religious language about divine calling, biblical womanhood and rejecting modern feminism.
Pop culture has caught the scent. Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, a reality series blending traditional aesthetics with public-facing influence, feels ripped straight from tradwife TikTok. Meanwhile, creators like Nara Smith are turning domesticity into aspirational—and monetized—content. Baking a pie while looking flawless? Empowerment, apparently.
But this isn’t just about content. It’s about control.
Dr. Kristen Barber, a sociologist and editor of Gender & Society, sees the trend as cultural backlash. “Women are burned out,” she said. “They’re told to have it all—the career, the marriage, the identity—but without any structural support. Tradwife content sells the illusion of rest, purpose and clarity.”
In a world where everything feels unstable, the idea of leaning into clear-cut gender roles starts to look like a safe bet. A 2024 cross-cultural study published in DergiPark found that both in the United States and Türkiye, economic instability and post-COVID anxiety pushed some women toward traditional domestic roles—not because they were nostalgic, but because they were tired.
And here’s the thing: Choosing to stay home, raise kids and prioritize family isn’t inherently regressive. For some, it’s freeing. But TikTok doesn’t do nuance. It does algorithms. And the version of womanhood that goes viral tends to be the one that looks the most aesthetic, most compliant—and most profitable.
That’s the other side of the tradwife coin: It’s often a business. A recent SAGE Journals report noted that many tradwife influencers aren’t just promoting a lifestyle. They’re monetizing it. Sponsored posts, affiliate links and brand deals turn vintage femininity into a full-time hustle—ironically replicating the very grind culture the movement claims to reject.
And not all of it stays cute. A 2024 arXiv study titled “From Flowers to Fascism?” analyzed how visual trends like cottagecore can become pipelines to traditionalist—and at times extremist—ideologies. That’s not to say every homemaking reel is radical propaganda. But in the online attention economy, where aesthetics spread faster than context, the line between vibes and values gets blurry.
For young Christians trying to make sense of all this, the takeaway isn’t to mock or moralize. It’s to question what’s being sold—and why.
Because here’s the truth: The Gospel isn’t nostalgic. It doesn’t romanticize the past or offer escape into rigid roles. It calls us into wisdom, freedom, mutuality—and actual rest, not just the Instagrammable kind.
Proverbs 31 doesn’t glorify passivity. It celebrates strength, discernment and creative agency. Biblical submission, when done right, is mutual, not one-sided. It’s not a branding opportunity. It’s a relationship built on respect.
Christian therapist and author Debra Fileta points out how easily spiritual language can be twisted into something controlling. “People think boundaries are about telling others what to stop doing—‘Don’t call me at 4 a.m.’—but that’s just control in disguise,” she said. In some tradwife circles, “submission” becomes a code word for disappearing inside someone else’s identity. That’s not biblical. That’s erasure.
And while it may feel countercultural, tradlife isn’t a rebellion. It’s a repackaging. When everyone’s burned out, there’s always going to be a market for certainty—and the promise that if you just fall into line, everything will be OK.
But faith doesn’t call us to aesthetic safety. It calls us to live with discernment in real time. To question the things that promise control but deliver cages. To separate spiritual conviction from social conditioning.
So sure—embrace homemaking if it brings you joy. Bake the bread. Hang the laundry. Be present with your family. But don’t mistake a TikTok trend for theology.
Being a Christian woman in 2025 doesn’t mean picking between burnout and baking. It means asking better questions—and remembering that real peace doesn’t come from fitting into someone else’s version of femininity. It comes from knowing who you are.
