Pilgrims Needed Feminists (and Better Travel Plans)

Let’s Start With the Obvious | Men Got Lost. Again.

The year was 1620. The menfolk had a map drawn by someone who’d never seen America, a boat that leaked, and a dream: religious freedom—or, let’s be honest, the freedom to tell everyone else how to worship.

And like every family road trip since, the women were sitting quietly in the back, clutching the metaphorical snacks and trying not to say, “If you’d just asked for directions…”

Because that’s what we do. We keep things alive. We make it work. We know when to turn left at the weird-looking tree stump instead of right into disaster. But history—ah, history loves a man with a hat and a terrible sense of direction.

The “Founding” of Plymouth | A Lesson in Selective Memory

They landed at Plymouth Rock, or so the story goes. But let’s remember—half the passengers didn’t sign the Mayflower Compact, because, well, they weren’t allowed to. Guess which half?

That’s right. The women. The ones washing clothes in icy water, mid-Atlantic wind slicing through their skirts, while the men debated how to spell “colony” and whether they were the chosen ones.

Meanwhile, Susanna, Elizabeth, and Mary were out here giving birth in cabins that could double as refrigerators and rationing moldy biscuits for breakfast. These feminists didn’t just survive—they created survival. And they didn’t even get a single line in the Thanksgiving play.

Imagine If the Women Had Run the Voyage

Let’s just imagine for a second what would’ve happened if the Mayflower’s navigation had been left to the women:

• They’d have packed snacks that didn’t spoil. Dried fruit, sourdough, maybe a little jerky—no one’s getting scurvy on their watch.
• They’d have kept an actual headcount. (“Where’s John? He fell overboard? Again?”)
• And they would’ve landed somewhere warm. Florida, maybe. “We’re not doing winter in Massachusetts, Jonathan. That’s ridiculous.”

Instead, the men landed in November—because nothing says “smart leadership” like arriving in a new, unfamiliar world at the exact moment it becomes uninhabitable.

The First Thanksgiving (aka: The First Potluck)

The story we tell now is one big Norman Rockwell fever dream: smiling Pilgrims, generous Natives, golden turkeys, and matching linens. Reality check—it was more like a chaotic potluck where nobody brought enough mashed potatoes and everyone was side-eyeing everyone else.

If women had planned it? Oh, honey. There’d be labeled serving spoons, place cards, and enough pie to feed the entire Wampanoag nation twice over.

Also, can we talk about the menu? Wild fowl, venison, and eel stew? No one was doing Keto, but come on. A woman would’ve figured out cornbread, roasted vegetables, and something—anything—that didn’t look like a dare.

Let’s Be Real | The Feminists Kept the Colony Alive

While the men were signing papers, arguing about who was governor, and possibly catching frostbite from standing around philosophizing, the women were doing literally everything else.

They were the first nutrition educators, the first community builders, the first Extension office. They taught kids to cook over open fires, tended the sick, and probably hosted the first women’s collective while waiting for someone to return with actual food.

No one talks about how many women died that first winter. They were outnumbered and overworked, and yet they still managed to keep going. It wasn’t because of divine providence—it was because of female perseverance. Imagine being a 17th-century woman with 17th-century birth control (none), 17th-century plumbing (none), and 17th-century respect (also none). You’d have to find joy somewhere. I like to think they found it in each other—quietly, steadily, passing the bread and saying, “We’ve got this.”

Patriarchy | The Original Bad Travel Buddy

The Pilgrims didn’t ask women for directions, and look what happened—they got lost, nearly froze to death, and called it “destiny.”

It’s like every camping trip ever where the husband insists he doesn’t need the instructions to set up the tent, and now the whole family’s sleeping under the stars because “that’s how the pioneers did it.” Meanwhile, the wife is mentally rewriting the survival manual, making lists of herbs, and quietly muttering, “We could’ve avoided this entire mess if anyone had listened to Martha.”

The truth is, the patriarchy has always had the loudest megaphone, but not the best GPS. The women were the map all along.

The Feminist Rewrite | The Mayflower (but Make It Sensible)

If I were rewriting the story, here’s how it would go:

The ship leaves England because the feminists are sick of being told what to wear to church. They pack essentials—oats, good wool, journals, a few bottles of something strong for morale. They take turns steering because equity matters, and they stop periodically to ask locals for directions, because collaboration matters too.

When they land, they greet the Wampanoag not as subjects or saviors but as equals—curious, respectful, ready to learn. They trade recipes. They share seeds. They build a community, not a hierarchy. And when it’s time for the first feast, everyone eats at the same table. The women speak first, because they’ve earned the right to.

Now that’s a Thanksgiving I’d show up for.

The Silent Strength We Inherited

Sometimes I think about those women—how history barely remembers their names but their fingerprints are everywhere. They were the first to whisper, “We can do this differently.” The first to push back, even quietly. The first to hold the world together while pretending not to.

We’re their daughters, in spirit if not in blood. Every time we gather women around a table, lead with empathy, build something from nothing, or say, “No, I’m not settling for that,” we’re carrying their legacy forward.

And unlike them, we get to tell our own stories now. Out loud. With humor, and sass, and Wi-Fi.

Maybe the Real Pilgrimage Is the One We’re Still On

It’s funny how “Pilgrim” used to mean wanderer seeking truth, and now it just means man in a hat with too much starch in his collar. But maybe we can reclaim it. Maybe we’re still pilgrims—modern ones. Feminists who journey, create, and refuse to apologize for taking up space. We might not be crossing the Atlantic, but we’re navigating careers, motherhood, midlife, and menopause with the same grit and determination.

We’ve still got blisters, sure—but we’ve also got better shoes.

The Feminist Thanksgiving We Deserve

Picture this year’s Thanksgiving table.

The centerpiece isn’t a stuffed bird—it’s a candle surrounded by gratitude notes from every woman who came before you. The playlist is women’s voices—Joni, Taylor, Tracy, Adele—singing us home. The conversation? Equal parts laughter, honesty, and reminders that “you don’t have to earn your seat here.”

We’ll pour the wine, pass the rolls, and tell the truth: it was never about the table settings, or the hats, or the myth of perfect Pilgrims. It was about women who endured, adapted, and kept going—then and now.

If they’d just asked us for directions, maybe we’d have found our way a little sooner. But you know what? We always find it anyway.

The Last Word Belongs to Her

We’ve been rewriting history in small, brave ways ever since 1620—one corrected map, one shared story, one sarcastic toast at a time. So this Thanksgiving, raise your glass to the feminists who packed the snacks, found the shore, built the homes, and never stopped navigating.

The men may have claimed to discover America, but the women made it livable.

And honestly? We’re still doing it.