For all the conversations we have about modern dating, it is surprising how quickly we fall back into old scripts.
We debate who should pay the bill. We argue over whether “real men provide.” We praise women who embrace the “soft life” and question those who insist on splitting the check. Dating podcasts, TikTok relationship gurus, and Instagram reels have transformed romance into a never-ending performance, where everyone seems to have an opinion on what a “successful” relationship should look like.
Under patriarchy, relationships have long come with a script. Men pursue. Women are pursued. Men pay. Women appreciate it. Men lead. Women support.
Even as conversations around gender equality continue to evolve, many of these expectations remain deeply embedded in the way we date, love, and build relationships. The question is not whether these roles still exist. The question is whether we are choosing them or simply inheriting them.
For feminists, navigating romantic relationships can sometimes feel like walking a tightrope between personal desire and political consciousness. Can you believe in equality while secretly hoping your partner reaches for the bill first? Is wanting financial security the same as expecting financial dependence? If a woman earns more than her boyfriend, why does society still treat it as an uncomfortable exception rather than an ordinary reality? And if two people of the same gender are in a relationship. Why is one of the first questions people ask, “So… who’s the man?”
Weird… if you ask me.
These questions may seem harmless; however, they reveal something much deeper. Patriarchy rarely stays outside our relationships. It follows us home, sits at our dinner tables, and quietly influences the decisions we think we’re making for ourselves.
One of the lasting expectations in heterosexual relationships is that men should be providers. Social media has only intensified this conversation. We are constantly introduced to “provider men,” “high-value men,” “soft life girlfriends,” “princess treatment” and endless advice about finding someone who can “lead.”
At first glance, these trends seem empowering. After all, who wouldn’t want to feel cared for?
But beneath the luxury aesthetics and carefully curated relationship content lies a familiar message: a man’s value is measured by what he can provide, while a woman’s value is often measured by how well she receives and how well a man wants her.
Ironically, many of these conversations present themselves as modern while recycling the very patriarchal expectations feminism has spent decades challenging.
A feminist lens invites us to ask a different question.
Is financial provision inherently oppressive, or does it become problematic when it is expected rather than chosen?
There is nothing inherently anti-feminist about one partner contributing more financially than the other. Relationships are rarely divided into neat halves. One partner may earn more. Another may be studying, caregiving, unemployed, or building a business.
The issue here is not who pays. The issue is whether money becomes a source of power. When financial support is freely given and mutually agreed upon, it can be one of love’s greatest expressions. When it becomes an obligation, a bargaining chip or a condition for control, it reinforces the inequalities feminism seeks to dismantle.
Perhaps what makes these conversations so exhausting is that they are rarely just about money. When people argue online about who should pay for dinner, they are often arguing about something much bigger: power, masculinity, femininity, status, and what love is supposed to look like.
Some women proudly declare they would never pay on a first date. Others insist that splitting every expense is the only feminist option. Men are told they should always provide yet are also expected to embrace equality. Everyone seems to be performing for an invisible audience, hoping to prove that they are doing relationships “correctly.”
How scary is that?
Feminism was never meant to become another rulebook. It was never about replacing one set of expectations with another. It was about creating the freedom to choose.
The same questions extend far beyond money.
Who plans the dates?
Who apologises first?
Who remembers birthdays?
Who notices when something feels off?
Who carries the emotional labour of checking in after difficult days, resolving conflict, remembering anniversaries, and making sure everyone feels emotionally safe?
These invisible responsibilities often reveal far more about power than the restaurant bill ever could. This is where the conversation becomes uncomfortable. Because while feminism encourages us to question the expectations placed on women, it also asks us to examine the expectations we place on one another.
Why do we celebrate emotionally available men until they earn less than their girlfriends? Why do we praise women for being independent but criticize them for wanting care? Why do some people still measure a man’s worth by his salary while insisting they believe in equality? Patriarchy is not simply something men enforce. It is a system many of us have learned to participate in, often without even noticing.
Romantic relationships are also shaped by the stories society tells us about gender. From childhood, many of us are groomed to know that men should protect, women should nurture, men should lead, and women should follow.
These ideas become so familiar that they begin to feel like personal preferences rather than social conditioning. Feminism does not ask us to reject every tradition. It simply asks us to pause and ask:
Did I choose this, or was I taught to want it?
The conversation becomes even more revealing when we look beyond heterosexual relationships.
The question seems innocent until we realize what it assumes: that every relationship must have someone leading and someone following. Someone providing and someone receiving. Someone making the decisions and someone expected to compromise.
Even non-traditional relationships can reproduce heterosexual dynamics, showing that patriarchy is not only about men.
It is about hierarchy.
Perhaps, the greatest misconception about feminist relationships is that equality means everything must always be fifty-fifty. Real life does not work that way. Some seasons require one partner to carry more of the financial load. Others require greater emotional support, caregiving, or practical responsibility. Equality is not about mathematical perfection.
It is about fairness, mutual respect, and recognizing that both partners deserve the same dignity and opportunity to shape the relationship they are building together.
What feminism ultimately challenges is not love itself. It challenges the hierarchies we have mistaken for love. It asks whether decisions are made together or simply accepted because “that’s how it’s always been,” whether sacrifices are shared or quietly expected from one person, and whether acts of care are freely given or demanded because of someone’s gender.
These are not questions reserved for academics or activists.
They belong to anyone who has ever fallen in love, navigated heartbreak, or imagined a future with someone else. Modern romance does not need one blueprint. Some couples will split every expense. Others will decide that one partner contributes more financially while the other contributes in different ways. Some will embrace traditional arrangements. Others will reject them entirely.
Feminism does not demand that every relationship look the same. It asks something far more radical. That every relationship be built on communication, consent, and choice rather than obligation.
The future of romance is not found in asking who should lead, who should pay, or who should decide. It began by asking why we assumed those roles belonged to someone in the first place. Because love should never require one person to become smaller so the other can feel bigger. The healthy relationships are not those where one person holds the power.
They are the ones where both people choose, every day, to share it.
Contributor(s): Oratile Mokgatle
