Who Really Wins When We Call Women ‘Pick Mes’?

 

Who Really Wins When We Call Women ‘Pick Mes’?

Spend a little time on TikTok, X, or Instagram reels and one word is bound to pop up: “pick me.” It’s often used with a sneer, contempt, a knowing laugh, or as a caption on a viral clip of a woman declaring, “I’m not like other girls.” What started as slang has become a cultural shorthand; sometimes a joke, sometimes an insult, and sometimes a genuine critique. But what does it actually mean, and what does its rise tell us about women, men, and the complicated dance of approval?

At its simplest, a pick me is a derogatory term that refers to a woman who appears to reject female solidarity in order to gain male attention or validation. She might say things like: “I don’t wear makeup, I’m natural, unlike other women,” or “I don’t really get along with girls, I only have male friends.” The implication is that she is “different,” more appealing, more acceptable; because men will supposedly find her less complicated and more accommodating. Easier to love.

Yet the meaning is slippery. For some, a pick me is any woman who loudly performs traditional femininity; cooking, serving, cleaning, and prioritising men above herself. For others, it’s more about disavowing women’s experiences, say, dismissing complaints about sexism, trivialising period pain, or mocking those who call for equality. The leitmotif here is the suggestion that she wants to be chosen by men at the expense of her welfare or connection to other women.

Pop culture has only magnified the stereotype. From characters in teen dramas who loudly insist they’re “different from other girls,” to celebrities who stress their simplicity over glamour, the figure of the pick me is everywhere. Online, memes capture exaggerated versions: women who allegedly downplay themselves, throw other women under the bus, or perform self-effacement to win male praise. The pick me has become a stock character in today’s theatre of gender politics.

But here’s where things get complicated. If we look closely, the label itself says as much about the women who use it as it does about the women it’s aimed at. Calling someone a pick me can be an act of resistance: a way to name behaviours that uphold patriarchy by pitting women against each other. But it can also be another form of policing, another way women shame one another for choices that don’t align with what is considered “feminist enough” or “modern enough.”

This is where the gender dynamics sharpen. For women, the label touches a nerve because it highlights the tension between solidarity and individuality. On one hand, many women want to stand together, affirming shared struggles and refusing to undermine each other for male approval. On the other hand, women are also individuals, making choices; sometimes traditional, sometimes unconventional; that may not always fit neatly into the collective script. When the label “pick me” is used too broadly, it risks flattening those choices into caricatures.

For men, the pick me phenomenon reinforces the long-standing idea that women must compete for their attention. The very phrase suggests a competition - a line of women waiting to be chosen. In this sense, the term critiques not only the women labelled but also the system that makes being “picked” seem so central to female identity.

And for society at large, pick me shines a light on the double bind women continue to face. Be independent, but not so independent you threaten men. Be nurturing, but not so self-sacrificing you lose yourself. Perform femininity, but don’t overdo it. Refuse to perform, and risk being called difficult. In such a landscape, the term pick me can become yet another impossible line to walk.

So, is it a useful label, or just another insult? On one hand, it gives language to a real social pattern: the ways women sometimes reinforce patriarchy by distancing themselves from one another. On the other, it risks becoming yet another way we divide ourselves; weaponizing words against women instead of questioning the deeper structures that create the competition in the first place.

In the end, perhaps what’s most telling is not the women who get called pick me, but the conversations that follow. Are we critiquing choices, or condemning women? Are we interrogating patriarchy, or recycling old habits of shaming each other? Pick me may be just two little words, but they carry centuries of tension, between tradition and autonomy, solidarity and individual freedom, women defining themselves and being defined by others.

The question remains: does calling someone a pick me help us understand each other better, or does it simply build yet another wall between us?