Another cautionary tale of #GIRLBOSS
How Matilda Djerf’s moral downfall made me think back to the girlboss archetype.
Dear reader,
Last week, I went to the cinema with a friend. As we waited for the film to begin, our conversation drifted, and Matilda Djerf’s name came up. “Have you heard?” my friend asked indulgently. I hadn’t. Intrigued, I delved into the online gossip afterwards, plunging headfirst into the tea about the 25-year-old influencer and multi-million-dollar business owner.
Djerf, celebrated for her size-inclusive and body-positive brand, Djerf Avenue, was facing accusations of fostering a toxic work environment. Allegations included bullying, body-shaming, and mistreatment of employees and models. A few days later, I stumbled upon a podcast episode by The Cut, featuring Sophia Amoruso—former CEO of the now-bankrupt Nasty Gal and the original #GIRLBOSS. Five minutes into the episode, the news about Djerf resurfaced in my mind. The backlash surrounding her felt like déjà vu.
For those who don’t know Sophia Amoruso (especially my Gen Z readers), she’s the one who birthed the term girlboss about a decade ago. She rose to fame fast—building a multi-million-dollar fashion company in her twenties and writing the bestselling book #GIRLBOSS. Her legacy of ambition and success became a blueprint for an entire generation of millennial women aspiring to transform into cinderella's of tech and sexy CEO’s.
The Girlboss phenomenon became a significant cultural trend, loosely aligning with some feminist values. However, as time passed, societal attitudes shifted, rejecting the notion that enduring sexist micro-aggression, working excessive hours, or pushing through physical pain like menstrual misery were simply part of being a “strong” woman. The shift opened a window for change, alluding many to question just how feminist the Girlboss archetype truly is. Is she really feminist? Or is the connection more of a sheer association? Does enduring these struggles make Girlboss feminist, or does it merely perpetuate the shitty stuff?
The Girlboss archetype, in its original form (I’ll explain how this definition has evolved over the years), highlights how women’s discontent with capitalism-driven conditions often manifests in extreme cultural movements. The tradwife trend is another example. On the surface, it may seem like an incongruous comparison, but both stem from the same underlying frustrations—sexist biases that shape women’s professional and personal lives. The Girlboss is on the one extreme side of the spectrum; she seeks empowerment by welcoming ambition within the capitalist framework, while the tradwife, being on the other extreme end of the spectrum, retreats to traditional gender roles. The latter is tired of trying to prove that she can do everything a man can do, and thus devotes herself to the responsibilities of a mid twentieth century housewife. Despite their stark differences, both archetypes are deeply contradictory, serving as painful coping mechanisms for navigating systemic flaws.
Amoruso’s story is both a warning and an example of where unchecked ambition can go wrong. In the end, her company, Nasty Gal, went bankrupt—a casualty of its founder’s flawed leadership; Nasty Gal’s hustle-culture and toxic management style ultimately pushed people away.
So, as I briefly mentioned before, young women over the years, have reinterpreted girlboss, which I think is a great thing. Instagram and TikTok, showcase this cultural shift in the definition of girlboss very well. It’s taken on a softer approach, not scorning the human parts of ourselves and recognising that there’s more to life than KPI’s and core competencies.
In the podcast interview, Amoruso reflected on her younger, more naïve self with striking honesty. She admitted she was too young—in her early twenties—to run a business of that scale and lacked the emotional maturity to lead. Over the past decade, she’s had time to reckon with her past: the rise and fall of girlboss culture, its shifting definitions, and her role in glamorising a cocky, millennial brand of narcissism that encouraged women to copy her.
But Amoruso’s “fall” came in a pre-cancel-culture era and social media ten years ago was not what it is today. Djerf, in the age of social media hot takes and real-time reactions, had to respond to criticism immediately, navigating the trenches of public accountability. Djerf’s face is the brand, and the brand is inseparable from her persona. NOT to pity her, but that pressure is immense…
Make no mistake: public figures like Djerf and Amoruso should be held accountable for their actions. Just like everybody else. But accountability doesn’t have to equate to cancellation. Criticism doesn’t have to lead to one's social death, particularly for women, who so rarely are given the room to grow and evolve in the public eye (here, read a million exclamation marks).
While the specifics of their stories differ, the parallels between Djerf and Amoruso are undeniable. Both embody traces of the girlboss archetype—a girl that feels compelled to be a bitch in order to be successful and in order to be taken seriously by a world that operates according to patriarchal standards.
This cultural identity is just a way for women to feel empowered by capitalism, a ‘comfortable enough space’ within systems still steeped in inequality. Women like Amoruso and Djerf are constantly trying to navigate the double standards: prove your worth, always look hot, don’t show your vulnerabilities, yet somehow show warmth and maternal instinct, be savvy and strategic, but not too much. Aka, do it all with an idealised, marketable version of feminine leadership. It’s not surprising that sometimes, trying to measure up to all these expectations can work counterproductively.
Stay cool.
Love,
Naomi