When I was younger, strength looked like silence. Stoicism. Suffering without complaint. That’s what I was taught—in school, in church, in my conservative hometown. But as a queer, biracial kid trying to survive West Texas with only basic cable and a prayer (well, a figurative prayer—I’m an atheist, after all), I found a very different definition of strength sitting in front of my television and flickering across movie screens.
Over the years, it wasn’t male action heroes or moralizing male presidents who taught me how to be resilient. It was women. Brilliant, messy, brave, complicated, iconic women who weren’t afraid to be loud, soft, angry, weepy, cunning, maternal, or ruthless—sometimes all in the same scene. They didn’t whisper their power. They screamed it. Or seduced it. Or plotted it. And I took notes.
Let’s take a tour, decade by decade, of what these unforgettable women taught me about real strength.
1950s: Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy
Lesson: Strength can be hilarious and subversive.
Lucy Ricardo wasn’t a warrior or a lawyer or a spy. She was a redhead with a taste for trouble and a dream of stardom. But she was also a disruptor. In a time when women were expected to smile, cook, and never outshine their husbands, Lucy ran headfirst into absurdity and always managed to outsmart everyone—including Ricky.
She taught me that being underestimated is your greatest weapon. She didn’t break the fourth wall—she obliterated the box women were trapped in. And she did it with timing, fearlessness, and a pie in the face.
1960s: Elizabeth Montgomery in Bewitched
Lesson: You don’t always have to show your power to hold it.
Samantha Stephens had actual magic at her fingertips—and spent most of her time trying not to use it. Her restraint was revolutionary. In a world that feared powerful women, she tucked hers into domestic perfection while still managing to bend reality around her pinky finger (or her twitchy nose).
She showed me that strength doesn’t always mean fighting every battle out loud. Sometimes it’s in knowing what you’re capable of… and choosing when to unleash it.
1970s: Pam Grier in Foxy Brown
Lesson: Strength doesn’t ask for permission. It kicks the damn door in.
Enter blaxploitation’s reigning queen. Pam Grier wasn’t just strong—she was unstoppable. She made vengeance glamorous and revolution sexy. In Foxy Brown, she brought down drug rings, corrupt cops, and predatory men, all while looking like the baddest woman to ever rock a natural.
She was a declaration: that Black women didn’t need saving. They were the saviors. I was too young to fully grasp it when I first saw it, but even then, I knew—she was what strength looked like.
1980s: Sigourney Weaver in Aliens
Lesson: Strength is surviving, then turning around to protect others.
Ellen Ripley isn’t just the blueprint for female action heroes—she’s the architect. She faced trauma, terror, institutional gaslighting, and literal monsters… and still chose to save a little girl and confront her deepest fear head-on.
She didn’t just win the fight—she earned it. Ripley taught me that being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Fighting anyway? That’s what makes you powerful.
1990s: Sarah Michelle Gellar in Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Lesson: Strength is complicated—and it comes with a cost.
Buffy Summers slayed vampires, sure, but she also juggled depression, friendship drama, existential dread, and community college. She wasn’t always likable. She got angry. She died (twice). She came back (twice). She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and still had to pass her finals.
As someone who grew up carrying invisible weights—shame, trauma, silence—Buffy made it feel okay to be both exhausted and extraordinary.
2000s: Viola Davis in How to Get Away With Murder
Lesson: Strength is vulnerability, worn like armor.
Annalise Keating didn’t smile to be liked. She didn’t beg to be understood. She was complicated, fierce, manipulative, loving, and broken. Watching Viola Davis peel back Annalise’s layers was like watching someone skin a wound on national television and call it Emmy-worthy.
She reminded me that true power doesn’t come from being perfect. It comes from being whole—ugly, raw, brilliant, flawed. All of it.
2010s: Sandra Oh in Killing Eve
Lesson: Strength is curiosity—and refusing to stop growing.
Eve Polastri was no action star. She wasn’t a detective in the traditional sense. She was weird. Obsessive. Brilliant. And she refused to stop chasing the truth—even when it unraveled her.
She taught me that change is painful. Growth is chaotic. But there’s beauty in transformation. Especially when it’s messy and driven by hunger—whether for justice, danger, or love.
2020s: Zendaya in Euphoria
Lesson: Strength is surviving your own mind.
Rue isn’t a role model. She’s not supposed to be. She’s a reminder of how brutal life can be when the enemy is inside you. Addiction. Depression. Trauma. Watching her spiral is gut-wrenching—but watching her claw her way back is even more powerful.
Zendaya’s performance shattered me. Rue’s story told me that surviving doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes it looks like crying into a hoodie. And that’s enough.
What They All Taught Me
These women—these fictional powerhouses—weren’t always heroic in the conventional sense. Some were criminals. Some were killers. Some were comedians. But they were all real in the way only TV and film can capture. They taught me that strength isn’t about being invulnerable—it’s about being seen. Being bold. Being afraid and still showing up.
As someone who has spent his life performing survival, packaging trauma into neat soundbites, and learning how to be vulnerable without coming undone—these women gave me the permission to be all of myself. Fierce. Funny. Flawed. Fabulous.
And maybe, just maybe, to believe that my own strength deserves a little spotlight too.