Philanthropy, Beauty, Feminism, and the Illusion of Empowerment
Something interesting happened to me recently. On two separate occasions, I was criticized for supposedly not supporting women—each time for an entirely different reason.
The first involved the Cornell Seven case.
I said the men accused of sexual assault deserved fairness, due process, and an examination of the evidence before anyone concluded they were guilty. Apparently, that was enough to make some people question whether I supported women.
The second involved Susan Dell.
I made an unflattering remark about her appearance, saying she looked like a monster who lived under my bed as a child.
Was it unkind? Absolutely. I’ll own that.
But the criticism was that, rather than applauding a woman trying to help children, I was commenting on her face. Once again, the implication was that I wasn’t supporting women.
And that got me thinking.
When did supporting women become synonymous with agreeing with them, defending every choice they make, or withholding criticism simply because they’re women?
Supporting women does not require me to abandon my judgment.
I can believe that a woman alleging sexual assault deserves compassion, a serious investigation, and the opportunity to seek justice while also believing that the accused deserve fairness and due process. Those principles are not mutually exclusive.
Likewise, I can acknowledge that my comment about Susan Dell was unnecessarily harsh while questioning the cultural pressures that encourage women to pursue increasingly dramatic cosmetic alterations.
And I can recognize the generosity of a $6.25 billion charitable pledge while asking difficult questions about the public policy and financial arrangements surrounding it.
None of those positions means I don’t support women.
Genuine respect for women means treating us as fully capable human beings whose ideas, decisions, and actions can be examined critically, just like anyone else’s.
Women deserve equal rights, equal opportunities, and equal respect. That doesn’t mean we require universal agreement or immunity from criticism.
And if feminism is about women’s autonomy, independence, and equality, shouldn’t it also make room for women who think independently, question prevailing narratives, and disagree with one another?
The $6.25 Billion Question
Let’s begin with the Dells’ contribution.
Michael and Susan Dell committed $6.25 billion to provide $250 investment deposits for 25 million American children through the Trump Accounts initiative.
The accounts were established under the 2025 legislation commonly called the One Big Beautiful Bill. Eligible children born between 2025 and 2028 qualify for an initial $1,000 federal contribution. The Dells’ donation primarily extends a smaller benefit to children who were born before that period.
Families can contribute additional money, generally up to $5,000 annually, allowing the investments to grow over time.
And I understand the appeal.
Giving children an early introduction to investing and the potential benefits of compound growth is not inherently a bad idea. For a family with the means to contribute regularly, an account opened during childhood could eventually become a meaningful financial asset.
But here’s where I have questions.
The same legislation that created these investment accounts is projected by the Congressional Budget Office to reduce federal Medicaid spending by approximately $1.2 trillion and Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program spending by approximately $211 billion over the 2026–2035 period, compared with the previous spending baseline.
That’s $1.2 trillion less in projected Medicaid spending and $211 billion less in projected food assistance spending over ten years.
Programs that help families meet immediate needs.
And while the Dell contribution is private philanthropy, the federal program it supports exists within that larger set of public policy decisions.
I understand the financial-services industry. It’s my husband’s profession, for goodness’ sake. I understand compounding returns, asset management, and how financial institutions make money.
What I question is the philosophy behind these priorities.
A family with disposable income can contribute thousands of dollars over the years, potentially building a substantial investment balance for a child.
But what about the family that doesn’t have an extra $50 at the end of the month?
What about the mother deciding whether to buy groceries or pay the electric bill?
How is she supposed to contribute to an investment account when she can barely afford the necessities?
It’s like giving someone a brand-new car but no keys.
I have a cleaning lady whose daughter recently had her school pictures taken. The little girl wore a dress three sizes too small because her mother couldn’t afford to buy her a new one.
I keep thinking about that little girl.
She doesn’t need a lecture about compound interest. She needs a dress that fits.
Today.
That doesn’t mean a modest investment in her future is worthless. It means we should be capable of recognizing the difference between helping a child eighteen years from now and helping that child get through this week.
And there are other questions worth asking.
Who administers these accounts? How are financial institutions selected? What fees will eventually be charged? What safeguards exist to ensure the program benefits the children rather than disproportionately rewarding the companies managing their money?
Those aren’t accusations. They’re questions about transparency and accountability.
The Dells may be entirely sincere in their desire to help children build financial security. Their contribution is substantial, and the children receiving it may benefit.
But philanthropy, no matter how generous, does not make the surrounding public policy immune from examination.
And I remain skeptical of any arrangement in which enormous private wealth, political power, and financial institutions intersect.
I don’t trust anyone who makes a deal with the devil.
That’s my personal assessment, not an allegation of wrongdoing.
What I want to understand is why we’re placing so much emphasis on what poor children might accumulate in the future while reducing projected spending on programs their families depend upon in the present.
A child’s future matters. So does the childhood they’re living right now.
The Price of Perfection
Now, back to Susan Dell.
And my admittedly unkind remark about her looking like someone who lived under my bed.
What struck me wasn’t simply that her appearance seemed startling to me. It was the larger question it raised about what we’ve come to accept as normal in the pursuit of youth.
Susan Dell was a beautiful woman. Looking at photographs of her from years ago, I find myself wondering what was so terrible about the prospect of simply growing older.
What’s wrong with gray hair?
What’s wrong with wrinkles?
What’s wrong with a face that reflects the years we’ve lived?
I sometimes wonder what would happen if we could go back in time and show Susan Dell two photographs of herself: one showing how she might have aged naturally, with gray hair, wrinkles, and the familiar features of her younger self, and another showing the face she has today.
If she could have seen those two possibilities side by side, before any decisions were made, which would she have chosen?
I have my doubts that she would have chosen the latter.
But perhaps that’s part of the problem. These transformations don’t necessarily happen overnight. One procedure becomes another, until the face looking back at us in the mirror may be very different from the one we originally hoped to preserve.
And I wonder how many women, given the opportunity to see both destinations before beginning the journey, would choose to grow old naturally instead.
These transformations don’t necessarily happen overnight.
One procedure becomes another. A little adjustment here. A little correction there. What once seemed unusual becomes familiar, and the next alteration doesn’t seem quite so dramatic.
And sometimes, once you’re in, you’re in.
For some people, I wonder whether the pursuit of looking younger can gradually become a pursuit of correcting the results of previous attempts to look younger.
At what point do we stop trying to preserve the face we once had and start chasing a face that never existed?
There’s something almost tragic about the possibility that our efforts to avoid looking different might ultimately make us look more different than natural aging ever would have.
And we’ve built an enormous industry around that fear.
According to the International Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, more than 35 million surgical and nonsurgical aesthetic procedures were performed worldwide in 2025. Women accounted for approximately 85% of those procedures.
Think about that.
Millions upon millions of procedures, with women overwhelmingly represented.
And that’s only one measure of an enormous commercial ecosystem that includes cosmetic surgery, injectable treatments, medical spas, anti-aging products, beauty marketing, and countless services promising to correct something about our appearance.
From Botox to boob jobs to butt jobs and everything in between, we’ve normalized the idea that women’s natural faces and bodies are somehow unfinished products.
And I keep asking myself: What exactly are we buying?
Youth? Beauty? Acceptance?
The illusion that we can somehow outrun the inevitable?
We’ve created a culture that relentlessly tells women they’re simply not good enough.
Not young enough.
Not thin enough.
Not beautiful enough.
And there’s always someone waiting to sell us the solution.
Of course, women have the right to make their own decisions about their bodies. I am not suggesting otherwise.
But bodily autonomy doesn’t require us to celebrate every cosmetic trend or pretend that our choices exist independently of cultural pressure.
And at some point, I think women themselves need to examine what we’re participating in.
We can criticize the beauty industry for profiting from our insecurities, and rightly so. But we also need to ask why we continue buying what it’s selling.
Why do we reward the standards that make us feel inadequate?
Why do we normalize altering perfectly healthy faces and bodies to conform to an ideal that seems to change every few years?
And why are we so reluctant to question those decisions for fear of being accused of not supporting women?
I understand why someone might object to my original remark about Susan Dell. It was personal, and it was unkind.
But that doesn’t invalidate the larger discussion.
If we truly believe a woman’s value extends beyond her appearance, why have we created a culture that encourages her to spend so much of her life—and her money—trying to change it?
Our faces tell our stories.
Every line, every expression, every passing year is evidence of a life lived.
I look at women who have allowed themselves to age naturally, and I see character, experience, individuality, and beauty.
I don’t see something that needs correcting.
I am not repulsed by aging. I am repulsed by a culture that teaches women to be repulsed by themselves.
And the contrast with the Dell philanthropy discussion is difficult for me to ignore.
We live in a society where extraordinary wealth can purchase almost anything, including endless attempts to preserve youth, while a mother down the street struggles to buy her daughter a dress that fits.
Different problems. Different circumstances. Different kinds of choices.
But they force me to ask the same underlying question.
Have we lost sight of what actually matters?
Supporting Women Shouldn’t Require Suspending Judgment
Which brings me back to the Cornell Seven.
When I argued that the accused men deserved fairness and due process, I wasn’t dismissing the woman who made the allegations.
I wasn’t suggesting that sexual assault allegations shouldn’t be taken seriously.
I was saying that serious accusations require serious examination.
Evidence matters.
Fairness matters.
The rights of the accuser and the accused matter.
And the presumption of innocence isn’t some technical inconvenience that we should discard whenever an accusation becomes emotionally charged.
I understand why women rally around other women who report sexual assault. There are legitimate reasons to be concerned about whether victims are heard, believed enough to receive a proper investigation, and treated with dignity.
But compassion and due process are not opposing principles.
Supporting a person who reports sexual assault does not require us to declare someone else guilty before the evidence has been examined.
Nor does asking questions about the evidence automatically mean we are accusing a complainant of lying.
The Cornell Seven allegations remain contested. I don’t presume to know the ultimate truth of what happened.
That’s precisely why I believe careful examination matters.
And yet, for expressing that position, I was criticized for not supporting women.
Then came the Susan Dell comment.
Different subject. Entirely different stakes.
But once again, I was told that my response demonstrated a failure to support women.
I recognize the distinction between those criticisms. In one instance, people objected to my position on fairness and due process. In the other, they objected to a remark that mocked someone’s appearance.
The second criticism has merit, and I’ve acknowledged it.
But what interests me is how quickly both conversations became questions of loyalty.
Are you supporting women, or aren’t you?
As though feminism were a membership card that could be revoked for asking the wrong question.
I don’t think supporting women means defending everything a woman says, does, believes, purchases, or chooses.
I don’t think it means suspending our ability to evaluate evidence.
And I certainly don’t think it means treating women as so fragile that they must be protected from disagreement.
Women are not empowered by being placed beyond criticism. We’re empowered by being taken seriously.
That means our ideas can be challenged.
Our decisions can be questioned.
Our arguments can be examined.
And we should be able to disagree with one another without turning every disagreement into a referendum on whether someone supports women.
There’s also something worth considering about the role social media plays in all of this.
The beauty industry can turn insecurity into revenue.
Social media platforms can turn outrage, solidarity, and moral certainty into engagement.
That doesn’t mean the emotions are insincere. It means the systems amplifying them may have incentives that have very little to do with truth, justice, or women’s well-being.
And sometimes I wonder whether we’re becoming more concerned with appearing to hold the correct position than with understanding the issue itself.
A charitable pledge is announced. Applaud.
A woman changes her appearance. Celebrate empowerment.
A sexual assault allegation gains public attention. Declare solidarity.
But what happens when someone asks a question?
What happens when the answer is complicated?
What happens when two legitimate principles appear to be in tension?
When did critical thinking become an act of disloyalty?
What Are We Teaching Our Daughters?
And this is where all of these conversations become deeply personal for me.
Because I have daughters.
And at some point, I think women need to reconsider what we’re teaching the next generation to prioritize.
I want my daughters to know they’re beautiful without lip injections, breast implants, or someone else’s definition of perfection.
But more importantly, I want them to understand that their beauty is among the least interesting things about them.
I want them to develop their intellect, their judgment, their curiosity, their independence, and their ability to recognize when something doesn’t feel right.
I want them to understand boundaries, consent, and the importance of thinking critically about the people and situations they encounter.
I want them to recognize manipulation, assess risks, and trust their instincts.
Not because awareness guarantees safety. It doesn’t. And responsibility for sexual violence always belongs to the person who commits it.
But because knowledge, judgment, and the confidence to act on one’s own perceptions are valuable tools throughout life.
I also want my daughters to understand that alcohol and drugs can impair their judgment, diminish their awareness, and leave them vulnerable in situations they might otherwise recognize as dangerous.
I want them to think critically about the environments they enter, the people they surround themselves with, and the consequences of becoming so intoxicated that they can no longer make informed decisions or protect themselves. I want them to recognize their limits, trust their instincts, look out for their friends, and know when it’s time to leave.
And I want them to know they can call me at three o’clock in the morning, from anywhere, without fear of judgment.
Having the right to do something and understanding the risks involved are two entirely different things.
But let me be absolutely clear: being intoxicated does not make someone responsible for being sexually assaulted.
That responsibility belongs entirely to the perpetrator. We can acknowledge that truth while still teaching our daughters the importance of situational awareness, personal responsibility, and sound judgment.
Empowerment isn’t pretending the world is always safe. It’s giving our daughters the knowledge, confidence, and critical-thinking skills to navigate it as safely as possible.
I want them to understand that their minds deserve at least as much attention as their appearances.
And I would much rather raise daughters who know how to question the world than daughters who spend their lives worrying about whether the world finds them attractive or how they might alter themselves to become more flattering to the male gaze.
Their worth is not determined by how desirable they are to men.
They weren’t put on this earth to be visually pleasing to anyone.
And I don’t want them measuring their success by how closely they resemble whatever version of female perfection happens to be fashionable.
I want them to read.
To think.
To challenge assumptions.
To recognize when someone is trying to sell them something, whether it’s a beauty treatment, a financial promise, or a simplistic explanation for a complicated situation.
I want them to understand that they can respect another woman’s choices without feeling obligated to celebrate every choice she makes.
That they can care deeply about someone who reports sexual assault without presuming to know the outcome of an investigation.
That they can appreciate generosity while questioning the public policy surrounding it.
And that they can disagree with other women without somehow betraying their own sex.
Because independent thought is not the enemy of feminism. It should be one of its greatest achievements.
Beneath the Surface
The more I think about these conversations, the more I realize they are connected by something much larger than Susan Dell, the Cornell Seven, or a government investment program.
They’re connected by our willingness—or unwillingness—to look beneath the surface.
A billionaire gives billions to children.
That is a substantial act of generosity. But we can still ask how the program works, what it accomplishes, and how it fits into broader public priorities.
A woman changes her appearance.
That is her right. But we can still question the culture that makes aging seem like a defect and the industries that profit from convincing women they need to be fixed.
A social media movement rallies around a woman alleging sexual assault.
That solidarity can be sincere and important. But we can still insist that justice requires evidence, fairness, and due process.
We should be capable of holding two thoughts at once.
Compassion and skepticism.
Autonomy and accountability.
Solidarity and independent judgment.
None of these are contradictions.
And I think we do women a profound disservice when we suggest otherwise.
Because the problem with a culture that demands unquestioning agreement is that it eventually teaches people to distrust their own judgment.
It teaches them to look outward for permission to believe what they believe.
To accept whatever is presented as compassionate, empowering, or just without examining whether it actually is.
And perhaps most troubling of all, it teaches young women that belonging requires conformity.
I don’t want that for my daughters.
I don’t want them growing up believing their value lies in their appearance, their desirability, their wealth, or their willingness to agree with the loudest voices in the room.
I want them to recognize their own worth without needing it reflected in a mirror, validated by a man, or confirmed by a crowd.
I want them to know that growing older isn’t a failure.
That asking questions isn’t betrayal.
That demanding evidence isn’t cruelty.
And that compassion is not diminished by the exercise of reason.
Real empowerment isn’t something you inject into your lips, purchase in an operating room, receive from a billionaire, or demonstrate with a social media hashtag.
It’s something you cultivate.
Through education. Through self-respect. Through independence. Through the courage to examine what you’re told and decide for yourself whether it’s true.
The most effective way to sell someone a solution is to first convince them they have a problem.
And the most effective way to discourage someone from questioning a narrative is to convince them that asking questions makes them a bad person.
I reject both propositions.
I don’t want to raise daughters who are merely beautiful, agreeable, or admired. I want to raise daughters who are formidable.
Women who know how to think, how to question, how to protect their autonomy, and how to stand by their principles even when doing so is unpopular.
Women who understand that supporting other women does not require surrendering themselves.
And women who know the difference between being told they are empowered and actually possessing the power to think for themselves.
Because the most dangerous thing we can teach our daughters isn’t that the world will judge them. It’s that they must stop questioning the world in order to be accepted by it.
