My Week Of Dressing Like A Tradwife

It started as a joke. I have a new book coming out tomorrow about tradwives called Everyone Is Lying to You, and I thought it would be fun to dress like a tradwife for a week. I’d put away my cut-off jean shorts and Nirvana tee from 1998 and swap them out for long, flowered dresses with just the right amount of cleavage.

I expected some muffled laughs, some jokes about Disney princesses and barmaids. I thought people would be asking me if I was test-driving my Halloween costume. But in the end, this experiment got weird. It upended the way I think about style, femininity, and being seen in the world.

The first one I ordered was the one that Hannah Neeleman (also known as Ballerina Farm) wore on the cover of the conservative lifestyle magazine Evie while milking a cow. Since it arrived, I have been trying to find a cow to milk in it, but strangely no farmers want me anywhere near their cows’ nipples. I get it.

In Sundress.co’s marketing copy, this particular dress was called the Raw Milkmaid Dress. It’s described as “designed in the French countryside and inspired by the hardworking dairymaids of 18th-century Europe and featuring a flattering corset bodice that cinches the waist beautifully, with a scooped neckline and drawstring, delicate boning, dainty buttons, a side zipper, and adjustable lace-up back for a custom fit.” It promised that the romantic puff sleeves could be styled on or off the shoulders.

My friend Flannery, who sells tradwife dresses at Bluebird & Co. in Virginia, picked out a bunch for me from her shop. I also ordered some Nap Dresses from Hill House Home to round out the wardrobe. These dresses all range in price from about $90 to $250. I think it is worth noting that actual, real-life farmers who are struggling to make ends meet are not buying embroidered linen dresses with corsets.

All of this is a massive departure from how I typically dress. My normal aesthetic is closer to a frazzled British woman who woke up 30 minutes past her alarm. I’ve been dressing like Bridget Jones for 15 years now. And who would blame me? I have three kids under 8 and seven different jobs. I work from home most of the time and the allure of remaining in my pajamas is as strong as The Force.

I also come from a generation that was told to dress for the job we want. The jobs I wanted for so long belonged to men. When I first started off in newsrooms in the early 2000s, I tried dressing like Carrie Bradshaw in the absurd heels and designer dresses I got for 90% off at sample sales. The older, more established male editors treated me like a little girl. So I toned it down. I dressed more like the dudes, acted like I didn’t care about fashion, and eventually I truly didn't.

But lately, like so many of us, I’ve been algorithmically pink-pilled and served a steady diet of soft-filtered tradwife content. This includes long lashes that look like they could reach through the screen and tickle your face, linen aprons, gleaming kitchens, and white dresses that never seem to get dirty even when the wearer appears to be frolicking through the desert. Many of these women look like they stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It’s Stepford meets Sephora, and it’s everywhere online.

So I wanted to test-drive it in real life: school drop-off, Costco, the bank, and moms night out. I started with the Raw Milkmaid Dress, which was everything the brand promised. The puff sleeves draped off the shoulders in a way that said I may churn butter later, or perhaps I will launch an OnlyFans account. There was a real corset, and it was no joke. It cinched, and it hurt. Breathing was not the easiest, but my posture had never been better. My son told me I looked like I was from the 1860s, but in a “happy” way.

At first, I felt ridiculous. Like I was wearing someone else’s skin. I walked into my husband’s office expecting a laugh. I am married to a man who never notices highlights, hates makeup, and thinks I just got a good night’s sleep when I get Botox. He is not the trad target audience. He looked up, did a double take, and said, “You look lovely.” Then he pulled me onto his lap like we were in a 1940s rom-com and tried to make out with me.

Next, I set off into the heart of America, or, rather, Costco. I started pushing my cart toward the sample lady and was greeted with a “don’t you look beautiful today.” I reached for an extra tostada, which someone so beautiful clearly deserved.

“Thank you,” I managed tentatively and backed away to my cart. But then it happened again in the frozen foods aisle. Two women, slightly older than me, stopped me to say they loved my dress and thought I looked wonderful in it.

I looked down at the flowery pink fabric, something my toddler daughter would covet, and proceeded to do a twirl. Where the hell did that come from? I thought. The women clapped. I took a bow and moved onto the dry goods section.

At the bank and the pharmacy, compliments flowed. No one seemed to think I was wearing a costume. They just thought I “put in a little effort” for the day, as the woman at the checkout line at the grocery store said, adding “more than usual.”

One woman said, “You look radiant.” Another called me “glamorous.” No one used the word “cute.” They said “beautiful.” I took note of it every single time and tucked it into my pocket (yes, the dress had pockets).

It was disorienting. I’ve been dressing for utility for more than a decade. Getting dolled up felt frivolous when I had so much actual work to do. But being seen felt incredible. Being admired felt empowering.

What bothered me was what I was being admired for. Was I being praised for adhering to the traditional feminine tropes of dresses that highlight small waists and ample cleavage? Or was I being admired for unapologetically showing up in the world with style? It was probably a mix of both. I hope it was.

It also made me question everything I thought I believed about femininity. Could it actually be powerful? Not submissive or ornamental, but strategic? Could it be a way to demand attention, instead of asking for it?

Maybe there's more nuance to this aesthetic than we want to admit. Maybe some of these women aren’t dressing like this to shrink themselves. Maybe they’re using it to make sure they’re seen. The social media algorithms certainly like it. For influencers, that attention is actual currency.

The only people who laughed were my girlfriends during a moms night out at the local bar. “Sorry, I forgot my lederhosen,” one said. Another asked me if I’d booked my tickets to Oktoberfest yet. I f*cking love my friends. They saw me, no matter what.

I tried both napping and chasing some chickens in one of my Nap Dresses. I found the long fabric uncomfortable for sleeping and then the chickens pooped all over it. That’s why you shouldn’t wear $200 dresses around livestock.

Parenting is also fairly impossible in these clothes. I fell on my face chasing my toddler and my boob popped out when I bent over to change a diaper at the playground. I truly do need more utility out of my clothes.

Here’s what I learned from my week in tradwife drag: Femininity doesn’t have to be the enemy, but the pressure to perform it might be. The real trap isn’t the corset but rather the idea that there is only one way to be a woman.

There’s something to be said for taking up space, for demanding to be seen, for refusing to disappear into the background of our own lives. Maybe that’s screaming riot girl karaoke while wearing your ratty Nirvana tank. Maybe it’s dressing up in June Cleaver cosplay. It’s not for me to say.

The tradwife aesthetic might be packaged as a return to traditional values, but my experiment became a reminder that we get to play around with what makes us feel our best. In a world where women are being pushed into the background, that is a power unto itself.