Human history is much deeper, more complex, and more nuanced than you probably remember from school. Many history books, especially the ones you read in class, focus on major events like battles and treaties. Unfortunately, one consequence of this is that women often get sidelined, as the spotlight rests mainly on men.
However, the ‘Women In World History’ social media project aims to change all of this by shining the spotlight on women over the ages. We’ve collected some of the most powerful stories about women from history, as featured there, to give you a deeper appreciation for the past. You’ll find them below.
#1
In 1871, Charles Darwin claimed women were intellectually inferior to men—and wrapped it in the authority of science. Many accepted it without question. But Antoinette Brown Blackwell, a woman already accustomed to breaking barriers, wasn’t about to let that stand.
By 28, she had already become the first woman ordained as a minister in the United States, defying centuries of tradition and theological gatekeeping. She knew firsthand how often “facts” were really just beliefs dressed up to justify excluding women.
So when Darwin published his theory, she took up her pen. In 1875, her book The Sexes Throughout Nature took his arguments apart point by point. She showed that evolution wasn’t a ladder with men at the top—it was a balance built on complementary strengths. She exposed how much of Darwin’s reasoning reflected Victorian gender norms rather than biological truth.
Her critique hit hard. Darwin never mounted a full response. And although her name isn’t as widely known, she opened intellectual doors many thought permanently closed, proving that women weren’t just capable of participating in scientific debate—they were capable of reshaping it.
By 28, she had already become the first woman ordained as a minister in the United States, defying centuries of tradition and theological gatekeeping. She knew firsthand how often “facts” were really just beliefs dressed up to justify excluding women.
So when Darwin published his theory, she took up her pen. In 1875, her book The Sexes Throughout Nature took his arguments apart point by point. She showed that evolution wasn’t a ladder with men at the top—it was a balance built on complementary strengths. She exposed how much of Darwin’s reasoning reflected Victorian gender norms rather than biological truth.
Her critique hit hard. Darwin never mounted a full response. And although her name isn’t as widely known, she opened intellectual doors many thought permanently closed, proving that women weren’t just capable of participating in scientific debate—they were capable of reshaping it.
Report
92points
#2
Josette Molland’s life was one of extraordinary courage, forged in the darkest of times. At just twenty years old, she was an art student in Lyon when she made the choice to resist the N**i occupation. While many at her age were thinking of careers or romance, she risked everything by joining the Resistance. Her skill with drawing and detail became a weapon of survival; she forged rubber stamps used to create false identity papers that saved countless Jewish refugees and Allied soldiers. Every stroke of ink was an act of defiance, a quiet rebellion against tyranny, and a lifeline for those desperate to escape.
Her bravery did not go unnoticed. The Gestapo, led by the ruthless Klaus Barbie—the “Butcher of Lyon”—set out to destroy the underground network she was part of. Josette was captured, brutally tortured, and deported to the Ravensbrück c****************p. Later, she was sent to a forced labor camp where survival meant enduring unimaginable cruelty, starvation, and exhaustion. Years later, she admitted that words could never truly describe the suffering: each day she believed might be her last. And yet, she endured.
When the war ended and liberation came, Josette could have chosen silence, as so many survivors did to protect themselves from reliving the trauma. Instead, she turned her pain into a t**l for education and remembrance. She painted fifteen haunting images in a raw, almost folk-art style, each one telling a story of the camps. She paired them with unflinching descriptions that revealed the inhumanity she had witnessed: prisoners executed for exhaustion, gold teeth wrenched from mouths to feed the N**i war machine. Through her art, she demanded that the young never forget what fascism looked like up close, so it could never take root again.
Her death at one hundred years old was marked with the same spirit of resistance that defined her youth. At her funeral, “La Marseillaise” and the “Chant des Partisans” were sung—songs that once carried courage through occupied France. She was buried with full military honors, a reminder that even in her frailty and old age, she was still a soldier, still a fighter.
Her bravery did not go unnoticed. The Gestapo, led by the ruthless Klaus Barbie—the “Butcher of Lyon”—set out to destroy the underground network she was part of. Josette was captured, brutally tortured, and deported to the Ravensbrück c****************p. Later, she was sent to a forced labor camp where survival meant enduring unimaginable cruelty, starvation, and exhaustion. Years later, she admitted that words could never truly describe the suffering: each day she believed might be her last. And yet, she endured.
When the war ended and liberation came, Josette could have chosen silence, as so many survivors did to protect themselves from reliving the trauma. Instead, she turned her pain into a t**l for education and remembrance. She painted fifteen haunting images in a raw, almost folk-art style, each one telling a story of the camps. She paired them with unflinching descriptions that revealed the inhumanity she had witnessed: prisoners executed for exhaustion, gold teeth wrenched from mouths to feed the N**i war machine. Through her art, she demanded that the young never forget what fascism looked like up close, so it could never take root again.
Her death at one hundred years old was marked with the same spirit of resistance that defined her youth. At her funeral, “La Marseillaise” and the “Chant des Partisans” were sung—songs that once carried courage through occupied France. She was buried with full military honors, a reminder that even in her frailty and old age, she was still a soldier, still a fighter.
Report
69points
#3
In the summer of 1967, a young Filipina actress named Maggie de la Riva walked into a courtroom in Quezon City and did something that few women of her time—or any time—have ever done with such courage. She pointed her finger at the four men who had kidnapped and g**g-raped her just five days earlier. They were not strangers from dark alleys. They were sons of powerful, wealthy families, men who expected to walk free. The room fell silent as she raised her arm, showing bruises on her skin. “Do you remember these?” she asked one of them. Her voice didn’t tremble. Theirs did.
Maggie had been a rising star in Philippine cinema—beautiful, educated, and ambitious. Her fame didn’t protect her. When the men abducted her outside her home, they assumed she would stay quiet, that shame and fear would keep her silent, as it had silenced so many women before her. But Maggie refused to disappear behind the stigma that so often punishes survivors instead of perpetrators. She chose to face her attackers in public, under the harsh glare of cameras, knowing that society would question her morality before it questioned theirs.
The trial became one of the most sensational and divisive in Philippine history. People whispered her name, debated her virtue, and speculated about whether she had “provoked” what happened to her. But Maggie never wavered. She sat in that courtroom every day, her presence a statement that what had been done to her would not be buried in secrecy or shame. The men smirked, joked, and relied on their families’ influence. Yet her testimony was unwavering, precise, and devastating. She turned her trauma into undeniable evidence.
In the end, justice came—rare and imperfect, but real. The four men were found guilty and sentenced to death, a shocking outcome in a country where the powerful were often untouchable. Maggie’s bravery broke through the myth that wealth could buy impunity.
Maggie had been a rising star in Philippine cinema—beautiful, educated, and ambitious. Her fame didn’t protect her. When the men abducted her outside her home, they assumed she would stay quiet, that shame and fear would keep her silent, as it had silenced so many women before her. But Maggie refused to disappear behind the stigma that so often punishes survivors instead of perpetrators. She chose to face her attackers in public, under the harsh glare of cameras, knowing that society would question her morality before it questioned theirs.
The trial became one of the most sensational and divisive in Philippine history. People whispered her name, debated her virtue, and speculated about whether she had “provoked” what happened to her. But Maggie never wavered. She sat in that courtroom every day, her presence a statement that what had been done to her would not be buried in secrecy or shame. The men smirked, joked, and relied on their families’ influence. Yet her testimony was unwavering, precise, and devastating. She turned her trauma into undeniable evidence.
In the end, justice came—rare and imperfect, but real. The four men were found guilty and sentenced to death, a shocking outcome in a country where the powerful were often untouchable. Maggie’s bravery broke through the myth that wealth could buy impunity.
Report
68points
Gender discrimination and systemic bias, while being pushed back against, are still prevalent in society. Not just in history, but even in the world of science, where objectivity should be the highest standard.
According to Nature magazine, women are “less likely to be named as authors on articles or as inventors on patents than are their male team mates, despite doing the same amount of work.”
This is, in part, due to the fact that women’s contributions to research are often not known, not appreciated, or ignored.
“There is a well-documented gender-based productivity gap in science. On average, women publish fewer papers than men, secure fewer grants and fill fewer leadership positions. Previous research has suggested that women are less productive because scientific working environments are less welcoming to them, they hold different positions from men or they have greater family responsibilities. But a 2020 study also hinted that women’s research is undervalued,” Nature magazine explains.
Not only did the research find that women were less likely than men to be named as a study author or inventor, but they were also less likely to be cited by other researchers, even when published in the same journals.
#4
Did you know that when Ruth Bader Ginsburg walked into her Harvard Law classroom, she was one of only nine women among nearly five hundred men? Imagine the weight of those stares, the silence that greeted her when she spoke up, the constant need to prove she deserved to sit in that seat. She was brilliant, but brilliance alone wasn’t enough—she had to be relentless, disciplined, and unshakably confident in her worth at a time when women were often told their place was elsewhere. While her male classmates were assumed to belong, she had to justify her presence every single day. And still, she thrived. She studied late into the night, raised a young daughter, cared for her husband as he battled cancer, and managed to excel so greatly that she became the first woman to serve on the Harvard Law Review. Her path reminds us that the doors we walk through today weren’t always open. They were pushed, wedged, and sometimes kicked open by women like her, who refused to let the world decide the limits of their potential.
Report
63points
#5
In medieval Europe, there were women who quietly stepped outside the roles expected of them, choosing lives that didn’t quite fit into the Church’s rigid boxes. They were called Beguines. Unlike nuns, they didn’t take lifelong vows, and unlike wives, they didn’t bind themselves to marriage. Instead, they built their own communities—places where women lived together, prayed together, and supported themselves through weaving, nursing, or teaching.
These women carved out rare independence in a world that gave them few choices. A #Beguine could own property, keep her earnings, and even decide to leave the community if she wished. Some lived simply, devoted to charity, while others became mystics and writers, producing some of the most profound spiritual works of their time. At a moment in history when women’s voices were so often silenced, theirs rose boldly, full of longing and power.
They weren’t always trusted. The Church sometimes saw their freedom as dangerous, their visions as too radical, their independence as a threat. Many faced suspicion or even persecution. And yet, the Beguines endured for centuries, creating a model of female solidarity and spiritual life that was neither cloistered nor controlled.
Their legacy lingers quietly, reminding us that women have always found ways to step outside the boundaries set for them, to create their own spaces, and to live by their own terms—even in times when it seemed impossible.
These women carved out rare independence in a world that gave them few choices. A #Beguine could own property, keep her earnings, and even decide to leave the community if she wished. Some lived simply, devoted to charity, while others became mystics and writers, producing some of the most profound spiritual works of their time. At a moment in history when women’s voices were so often silenced, theirs rose boldly, full of longing and power.
They weren’t always trusted. The Church sometimes saw their freedom as dangerous, their visions as too radical, their independence as a threat. Many faced suspicion or even persecution. And yet, the Beguines endured for centuries, creating a model of female solidarity and spiritual life that was neither cloistered nor controlled.
Their legacy lingers quietly, reminding us that women have always found ways to step outside the boundaries set for them, to create their own spaces, and to live by their own terms—even in times when it seemed impossible.
Report
62points
#6
Admiral Linda Fagan made history in 2022 as the first woman to lead a U.S. military branch when she became Commandant of the Coast Guard. A supremely qualified cutterman, she broke barriers throughout her decades of service. Her command ended abruptly in January 2025 when she was relieved of duty by the new administration. While her dismissal was a stark reminder of the fragility of progress, her legacy as a pioneering leader remains unshakable. She proved, unequivocally, that a woman belongs at the helm.
Report
54points
The ‘Women In World History’ social media project has been running on Instagram and Facebook since November 2016. Over the past 9 years, the curator has amassed a following of 58.1k followers on Instagram, as well as a jaw-dropping 289k followers over on Facebook. What’s more, the project has 2.6k fans on Threads.
According to the curator of ‘Women In World History,’ the project is a celebration of unforgettable women. They state that the past is full of influential individuals who are game-changers and who “made history in every manner possible and these just happened to be women.”
We’ve reached out to the curator to learn more about the project, and we’ll update the article as soon as we hear back from them.
#7
During one of the darkest chapters of World War II, when cruelty and fear defined daily life, a quiet woman named Diana Budisavljević chose compassion over safety. An Austrian of Croatian descent, she wasn’t a soldier or a politician—just a mother and nurse who refused to look away. When she learned that thousands of Serbian women and children were being imprisoned in concentration camps under the f*****t Ustaše regime, she began a daring mission to save them.
With calm determination, Diana organized what became known as “The Action of Diana Budisavljević.” She gathered volunteers, negotiated with authorities, and risked her own life to enter camps like Stara Gradiška and Jasenovac—places from which few ever returned. She didn’t go in empty-handed; she brought food, medicine, and hope. And she came out carrying lists of names, determined that every rescued child would have a chance to be reunited with their family someday.
By the end of the war, she and her network had saved more than 10,000 children. Yet, for decades, her story was buried—overshadowed by politics and forgotten by history. She never sought recognition, only peace for the children she saved.
With calm determination, Diana organized what became known as “The Action of Diana Budisavljević.” She gathered volunteers, negotiated with authorities, and risked her own life to enter camps like Stara Gradiška and Jasenovac—places from which few ever returned. She didn’t go in empty-handed; she brought food, medicine, and hope. And she came out carrying lists of names, determined that every rescued child would have a chance to be reunited with their family someday.
By the end of the war, she and her network had saved more than 10,000 children. Yet, for decades, her story was buried—overshadowed by politics and forgotten by history. She never sought recognition, only peace for the children she saved.
Report
54points
#8
Imagine being given an instrument of your own culture's suppression and using it to sing your people's song back to the world. This was the quiet, powerful rebellion of Zitkála-Šá. As a child, she was taken from her Yankton Sioux community to a boarding school where the goal was to erase her identity. There, she was forced to learn European classical music. But instead of silencing her, this education gave her a new, unexpected voice.
She mastered the violin and piano, and with that skill, she composed *The Sun Dance Opera* in 1913. This was a radical act. At a time when the U.S. government had outlawed Native ceremonies, she used the most prestigious of European art forms—opera—to bring a sacred Sioux ritual to the stage. She wove together classical melodies with the rhythms and stories of her people, creating something entirely new yet deeply traditional.
Her music was more than performance; it was preservation and protest. She took the very tools meant to assimilate her and used them to carve out a permanent space for Indigenous culture. Beyond her compositions, she was a formidable writer and activist, fighting for citizenship and rights. Her life reminds us that our power often lies in transmuting our pain into creation. She took what was meant to break her and built a legacy, proving that our stories, once set to music, can never be erased.
She mastered the violin and piano, and with that skill, she composed *The Sun Dance Opera* in 1913. This was a radical act. At a time when the U.S. government had outlawed Native ceremonies, she used the most prestigious of European art forms—opera—to bring a sacred Sioux ritual to the stage. She wove together classical melodies with the rhythms and stories of her people, creating something entirely new yet deeply traditional.
Her music was more than performance; it was preservation and protest. She took the very tools meant to assimilate her and used them to carve out a permanent space for Indigenous culture. Beyond her compositions, she was a formidable writer and activist, fighting for citizenship and rights. Her life reminds us that our power often lies in transmuting our pain into creation. She took what was meant to break her and built a legacy, proving that our stories, once set to music, can never be erased.
Report
53points
#9
Ashley Judd’s story is one of those moments where private pain and public reckoning collided. When she first spoke out about Harvey Weinstein, it wasn’t easy—this was a man who had built his career on fear and silence. She told the world what happened in that hotel room, how he had pressured her under the guise of a “business meeting,” and how her refusal set off a chain reaction she couldn’t see at the time.
After she said no, Weinstein didn’t just walk away—he used his power to quietly choke her career. Ashley later discovered he had spread lies about her to directors, deliberately blacklisting her from major roles. One of the clearest examples came when Peter Jackson revealed that she was blacklisted from The Lord of the Rings films because Weinstein’s company smeared her reputation. It wasn’t about her talent or ability—it was retaliation, a message to her and every other woman: defy me, and I’ll end you.
For years, she carried that loss without knowing the full extent of it, wondering why opportunities seemed to vanish. But when the scandal finally broke open and other women came forward, Ashley didn’t stay quiet. She became one of the first actresses to go on record, attaching her name to the stories that had long been whispered but never spoken aloud. That act of bravery helped open the floodgates for the MeToo movement, shifting it from rumor to undeniable truth.
The scandal between Ashley and Weinstein wasn’t just about one incident—it exposed the machinery of abuse in Hollywood, where men in power could control women’s livelihoods and futures with a single phone call. By speaking out, Ashley risked what little she had left in that world, but in doing so, she gave strength to a movement that would ripple far beyond film. Her story is proof of what happens when one woman breaks the silence: suddenly, the walls that seemed unshakable begin to crack.
After she said no, Weinstein didn’t just walk away—he used his power to quietly choke her career. Ashley later discovered he had spread lies about her to directors, deliberately blacklisting her from major roles. One of the clearest examples came when Peter Jackson revealed that she was blacklisted from The Lord of the Rings films because Weinstein’s company smeared her reputation. It wasn’t about her talent or ability—it was retaliation, a message to her and every other woman: defy me, and I’ll end you.
For years, she carried that loss without knowing the full extent of it, wondering why opportunities seemed to vanish. But when the scandal finally broke open and other women came forward, Ashley didn’t stay quiet. She became one of the first actresses to go on record, attaching her name to the stories that had long been whispered but never spoken aloud. That act of bravery helped open the floodgates for the MeToo movement, shifting it from rumor to undeniable truth.
The scandal between Ashley and Weinstein wasn’t just about one incident—it exposed the machinery of abuse in Hollywood, where men in power could control women’s livelihoods and futures with a single phone call. By speaking out, Ashley risked what little she had left in that world, but in doing so, she gave strength to a movement that would ripple far beyond film. Her story is proof of what happens when one woman breaks the silence: suddenly, the walls that seemed unshakable begin to crack.
Report
49points
The curator of ‘Women In World History’ isn’t the only person who is concerned with shining a light on what the past was really like.
During a previous in-depth interview, Bored Panda spoke with one internet user who inspired everyone to share examples of great women and female heroes who often get overlooked.
"I realized that I don't know many famous women throughout history. Learning about how so many women who had thoughts or opinions on a subject were deemed crazy put into perspective how little I knew, and I wanted to educate myself more," the internet user told us previously.
According to the internet user we previously interviewed, they were astonished by the popularity of the topic. It made them happy that so many people were curious, willing to challenge their biases, and willing to further educate themselves about women in history.
From their perspective, discrimination is the reason why women often get overlooked in history books.
#10
When Britain stood on the brink of war in 1939, the country faced a terrifying truth—if supply lines were cut, it could starve. To survive, Britain had to feed itself, and to do that, it needed hands to work the land. With so many men called to fight, the government turned to women. Thus, the Women’s Land Army was born, and thousands of “Land Girls” answered the call.
They came from farms and factories, from London flats and northern mill towns—some had never even seen a cow before. They traded dresses for dungarees and lipstick for mud, working from dawn till dusk ploughing fields, milking cows, and harvesting crops. They repaired machinery, stacked hay bales, and dug ditches in all weather. It was backbreaking, filthy, and often lonely work—but it was vital. Every loaf of bread, every sack of potatoes, every egg they produced helped keep Britain alive while ships at sea were being sunk by enemy U-boats.
By 1944, more than 80,000 women were serving in the Land Army under Lady Denman’s leadership. Many lived in hostels or barns, facing skepticism and sometimes ridicule from the very farmers they’d come to help. Yet over time, they earned respect the hard way—through sheer grit. Their laughter, their songs, and their determination became part of Britain’s rural rhythm.
When the war ended, there were no parades for them. Most simply returned home, quietly resuming the lives they had paused to serve their country. The Women’s Land Army was officially disbanded in 1949, but its legacy endured. These women fed a nation under siege, proved that strength has no gender, and changed forever the way Britain saw its daughters.
They came from farms and factories, from London flats and northern mill towns—some had never even seen a cow before. They traded dresses for dungarees and lipstick for mud, working from dawn till dusk ploughing fields, milking cows, and harvesting crops. They repaired machinery, stacked hay bales, and dug ditches in all weather. It was backbreaking, filthy, and often lonely work—but it was vital. Every loaf of bread, every sack of potatoes, every egg they produced helped keep Britain alive while ships at sea were being sunk by enemy U-boats.
By 1944, more than 80,000 women were serving in the Land Army under Lady Denman’s leadership. Many lived in hostels or barns, facing skepticism and sometimes ridicule from the very farmers they’d come to help. Yet over time, they earned respect the hard way—through sheer grit. Their laughter, their songs, and their determination became part of Britain’s rural rhythm.
When the war ended, there were no parades for them. Most simply returned home, quietly resuming the lives they had paused to serve their country. The Women’s Land Army was officially disbanded in 1949, but its legacy endured. These women fed a nation under siege, proved that strength has no gender, and changed forever the way Britain saw its daughters.
Report
47points
#11
Rebecca Solnit attended a gathering in Aspen in 2008 where a wealthy older man discovered she was a writer and began lecturing her about an important recent book on photographer Eadweard Muybridge. He spoke with absolute certainty, steamrolling past her attempts to interject. Her friend had to practically shout that Solnit was the author before the information registered. And still, he kept talking.
Most people would dismiss this as one annoying encounter. Solnit saw something bigger—a pattern where male voices are automatically granted authority while women must fight to be heard even about their own expertise.
Her essay "Men Explain Things to Me" dissected this dynamic with devastating precision. She wasn't complaining about rudeness but exposing how dismissal operates as a t**l of power, training women to doubt their own knowledge and defer to unfounded male certainty.
The response was explosive. Women worldwide recognized their own experiences—being interrupted in boardrooms, corrected about their own research, lectured about their fields by men with superficial knowledge. Soon "mansplaining" emerged as shorthand, though Solnit never used that term. By naming the phenomenon, she made it visible and challengeable.
What elevated her analysis was connecting this to larger inequality. When women's testimony isn't believed, when their expertise is overridden, when their voices are discounted, they lose the ability to advocate for themselves from workplace negotiations to reporting crimes.
Solnit revealed everyday dismissals as symptoms of systematic devaluation spanning from tedious conversations to courtrooms where victims face skepticism. She validated what women had long sensed but been taught to minimize—that their frustration was reasonable response to being denied authority. She gave them permission to trust what they already knew.
Most people would dismiss this as one annoying encounter. Solnit saw something bigger—a pattern where male voices are automatically granted authority while women must fight to be heard even about their own expertise.
Her essay "Men Explain Things to Me" dissected this dynamic with devastating precision. She wasn't complaining about rudeness but exposing how dismissal operates as a t**l of power, training women to doubt their own knowledge and defer to unfounded male certainty.
The response was explosive. Women worldwide recognized their own experiences—being interrupted in boardrooms, corrected about their own research, lectured about their fields by men with superficial knowledge. Soon "mansplaining" emerged as shorthand, though Solnit never used that term. By naming the phenomenon, she made it visible and challengeable.
What elevated her analysis was connecting this to larger inequality. When women's testimony isn't believed, when their expertise is overridden, when their voices are discounted, they lose the ability to advocate for themselves from workplace negotiations to reporting crimes.
Solnit revealed everyday dismissals as symptoms of systematic devaluation spanning from tedious conversations to courtrooms where victims face skepticism. She validated what women had long sensed but been taught to minimize—that their frustration was reasonable response to being denied authority. She gave them permission to trust what they already knew.
Report
46points
#12
She didn’t learn to read until age nine. Born to a strict, insular farm family in Depression-era North Dakota, Mary Sherman Morgan wasn’t even sent to school until the local authorities intervened. But once she got a taste of education, she devoured it. A scholarship took her to college in Ohio—an extraordinary leap for a young woman from such isolated beginnings—but with World War II raging, she left school early to contribute to the war effort. Her chemistry background landed her at a munitions plant, where she helped develop explosives for military use.
After the war, she applied to North American Aviation, a defense contractor where she was placed—not in secretarial work, like most women at the time—but in the engineering department. She was the only woman in the division, and the only one without a degree. Still, her coworkers quickly realized her mind was extraordinary. When America was desperate to catch up in the space race, it was Morgan they turned to with an urgent challenge: invent a rocket fuel strong enough to send a satellite into orbit.
There was a catch. The rocket’s engine had already been designed without knowing what kind of fuel it would require. This meant Morgan had to reverse-engineer a brand-new propellant—an unheard-of feat, especially with the h**h stakes of beating the Soviets to space. Under intense pressure, and with limited resources, Morgan created a fuel blend she called “Bagel.” It used LOX—liquid oxygen—as the oxidizer. Naturally, she thought it would be poetic to say the rocket would run on “Bagel and LOX.” But military brass didn’t appreciate the pun. The name “hydyne” was chosen instead.
Her invention worked. On January 31, 1958, Explorer I became the first successful U.S. satellite to reach orbit. The launch marked a major turning point in the Cold War-era space race. But while the moment made headlines, Mary’s name did not. In fact, her work remained largely classified, and her contributions were almost completely lost to history.
After the war, she applied to North American Aviation, a defense contractor where she was placed—not in secretarial work, like most women at the time—but in the engineering department. She was the only woman in the division, and the only one without a degree. Still, her coworkers quickly realized her mind was extraordinary. When America was desperate to catch up in the space race, it was Morgan they turned to with an urgent challenge: invent a rocket fuel strong enough to send a satellite into orbit.
There was a catch. The rocket’s engine had already been designed without knowing what kind of fuel it would require. This meant Morgan had to reverse-engineer a brand-new propellant—an unheard-of feat, especially with the h**h stakes of beating the Soviets to space. Under intense pressure, and with limited resources, Morgan created a fuel blend she called “Bagel.” It used LOX—liquid oxygen—as the oxidizer. Naturally, she thought it would be poetic to say the rocket would run on “Bagel and LOX.” But military brass didn’t appreciate the pun. The name “hydyne” was chosen instead.
Her invention worked. On January 31, 1958, Explorer I became the first successful U.S. satellite to reach orbit. The launch marked a major turning point in the Cold War-era space race. But while the moment made headlines, Mary’s name did not. In fact, her work remained largely classified, and her contributions were almost completely lost to history.
Report
44points
“They [women] weren’t in a position of power to safely promote their ideas on a certain topic or were told that they were crazy. I think the biggest reason would be that we just aren’t taught about their contributions and after so many decades and centuries, their names just get lost,” the internet user said, sharing their perspective about why so many women get sidelined.
However, while things may be improving on a societal level, with more recognition for women, there is also lots of room for improvement. “We’re still not where we need to be. Continuing to educate ourselves, as well as asking questions, will help pave a way for women to be equally recognized by men in the future,” the internet user told Bored Panda previously.
#13
A woman steps out of a cab, juggling bags of groceries, ready to get on with another ordinary day. Before she can put the key in the door, a reporter appears, breathless, telling her she’s just won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Doris Lessing, 87 years old, doesn’t gasp, doesn’t clutch her chest, doesn’t cry. She gives a wry smile, sits down on her doorstep, and says, “Oh, Christ.”
It was classic Lessing—direct, unsentimental, and deeply human. For decades, she had poured her clear-eyed observations of society, politics, and gender into more than 50 books, c*****g through the polite pretensions of post-war Britain, colonial Africa, and the feminist movements that tried to claim her. She was never interested in being celebrated. She was interested in truth, and she wrote with a sharpness that could both comfort and unsettle, exploring the intimate and the political with the same fierce honesty.
Born in Iran and raised in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), she saw firsthand the realities of racism and the suffocation of colonial life. Those experiences bled into her work, particularly The Grass Is Singing and her iconic The Golden Notebook, which dissected women’s lives and mental fragmentation with a rawness that resonated with women across generations. She lived boldly, joining the Communist Party when it aligned with her convictions and leaving it just as boldly when it disappointed her ideals, never afraid to revise her beliefs as she revised her sentences.
By the time the Nobel Committee recognized her, Lessing was past the age when the world typically expects women to be relevant, let alone honored on a global stage. But there she was, seated on her front step, groceries at her feet, fielding questions about a lifetime of words that had pierced through the noise of the 20th century. She became the oldest person ever to win the Nobel in Literature, a reminder that a woman’s voice does not expire, that the stories she tells—about war, about motherhood, about aging, about injustice—can continue to shake the world. She died at the age of 94 in 2013.
It was classic Lessing—direct, unsentimental, and deeply human. For decades, she had poured her clear-eyed observations of society, politics, and gender into more than 50 books, c*****g through the polite pretensions of post-war Britain, colonial Africa, and the feminist movements that tried to claim her. She was never interested in being celebrated. She was interested in truth, and she wrote with a sharpness that could both comfort and unsettle, exploring the intimate and the political with the same fierce honesty.
Born in Iran and raised in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), she saw firsthand the realities of racism and the suffocation of colonial life. Those experiences bled into her work, particularly The Grass Is Singing and her iconic The Golden Notebook, which dissected women’s lives and mental fragmentation with a rawness that resonated with women across generations. She lived boldly, joining the Communist Party when it aligned with her convictions and leaving it just as boldly when it disappointed her ideals, never afraid to revise her beliefs as she revised her sentences.
By the time the Nobel Committee recognized her, Lessing was past the age when the world typically expects women to be relevant, let alone honored on a global stage. But there she was, seated on her front step, groceries at her feet, fielding questions about a lifetime of words that had pierced through the noise of the 20th century. She became the oldest person ever to win the Nobel in Literature, a reminder that a woman’s voice does not expire, that the stories she tells—about war, about motherhood, about aging, about injustice—can continue to shake the world. She died at the age of 94 in 2013.
Report
43points
#14
In the summer of 1909, a 22-year-old homemaker named Alice Ramsey set out to do something utterly outrageous for her time: drive across the country. Not with her husband. Not with a mechanic. But with three other women—none of whom could drive. Her goal wasn’t to break speed records or prove technical prowess. It was to show that women belonged on the road just as much as men.
Back then, “roads” were more often than not little more than rutted trails, dust-choked tracks, or muddy messes barely passable by wagon. Maps were laughable. Gas stations were scarce. And the idea of a woman driving long distances was seen as a novelty—if not an outright act of rebellion. But that didn’t stop Alice. She loaded up a dark green Maxwell touring car and set off from New York City, determined to reach San Francisco.
The journey took 59 days. Along the way, they changed 11 tires, crossed treacherous terrain, drove through blinding rain and searing heat, and sometimes relied on telegraph poles for navigation. They were chased by men on horseback, stared at by stunned farmers, and even encountered Native American families still living on reservations. There were no hotel reservations. No GPS. No AAA.
Alice did all the driving. She also did most of the repairs. She had taken a car apart and put it back together before the trip, just in case. The other women—her two sisters-in-law and a friend—provided moral support, conversation, and an extra set of hands when needed. They were ladies of their time, wearing long skirts and wide-brimmed hats, but they were also bold enough to laugh in the face of convention.
When they rolled into San Francisco, they were met with astonishment. Newspapers across the country ran headlines about their feat. Men were impressed. Women were inspired. And Alice Ramsey became the first woman to drive coast-to-coast—a pioneer not only of the automobile age but of a new kind of female independence. Not flashy. Not angry. Just determined. Practical. And brave as h**l.
Back then, “roads” were more often than not little more than rutted trails, dust-choked tracks, or muddy messes barely passable by wagon. Maps were laughable. Gas stations were scarce. And the idea of a woman driving long distances was seen as a novelty—if not an outright act of rebellion. But that didn’t stop Alice. She loaded up a dark green Maxwell touring car and set off from New York City, determined to reach San Francisco.
The journey took 59 days. Along the way, they changed 11 tires, crossed treacherous terrain, drove through blinding rain and searing heat, and sometimes relied on telegraph poles for navigation. They were chased by men on horseback, stared at by stunned farmers, and even encountered Native American families still living on reservations. There were no hotel reservations. No GPS. No AAA.
Alice did all the driving. She also did most of the repairs. She had taken a car apart and put it back together before the trip, just in case. The other women—her two sisters-in-law and a friend—provided moral support, conversation, and an extra set of hands when needed. They were ladies of their time, wearing long skirts and wide-brimmed hats, but they were also bold enough to laugh in the face of convention.
When they rolled into San Francisco, they were met with astonishment. Newspapers across the country ran headlines about their feat. Men were impressed. Women were inspired. And Alice Ramsey became the first woman to drive coast-to-coast—a pioneer not only of the automobile age but of a new kind of female independence. Not flashy. Not angry. Just determined. Practical. And brave as h**l.
Report
39points
#15
At just 21, Andrée Borrel left everything she knew in France to fight back against the Nazis who had overrun her country. She joined the French Resistance, taking on the quiet, relentless work of guiding downed Allied pilots to safety, ferrying weapons, and gathering intelligence under constant threat of arrest or e*******n. But it wasn’t enough for Andrée to simply resist; she wanted to strike harder.
She trained in Britain with the Special Operations Executive (SOE), learning how to parachute into enemy territory, handle explosives, and move through occupied streets unnoticed. She was one of the first female agents to parachute back into France, dropping under cover of night to help build sabotage networks in preparation for the Allied invasion. Andrée didn’t hesitate to blow up power lines, disrupt railways, or help plan attacks against German supply routes, even when it meant risking capture at every turn.
She lived with the knowledge that women in resistance networks faced not only t*****e and e*******n if caught but also gendered violence from their captors. Still, she pressed on, hiding in safe houses, moving under curfew, and training others in sabotage techniques. She was described by those who worked with her as courageous, calm under pressure, and fiercely dedicated to her mission.
Eventually, Andrée was betrayed and arrested by the Gestapo. Even under brutal interrogation, she refused to give up her comrades or her mission. She was executed at Ravensbrück c****************p at just 24, her last moments marked by the same bravery that had defined her brief but extraordinary life.
Andrée Borrel’s story is a reminder of the women who stepped into war zones not because they had to, but because they chose to fight for freedom, refusing to be passive observers of injustice. Her legacy, like that of so many women in the resistance, shows that courage is not the absence of fear but the choice to act despite it, even when the stakes are life and death.
She trained in Britain with the Special Operations Executive (SOE), learning how to parachute into enemy territory, handle explosives, and move through occupied streets unnoticed. She was one of the first female agents to parachute back into France, dropping under cover of night to help build sabotage networks in preparation for the Allied invasion. Andrée didn’t hesitate to blow up power lines, disrupt railways, or help plan attacks against German supply routes, even when it meant risking capture at every turn.
She lived with the knowledge that women in resistance networks faced not only t*****e and e*******n if caught but also gendered violence from their captors. Still, she pressed on, hiding in safe houses, moving under curfew, and training others in sabotage techniques. She was described by those who worked with her as courageous, calm under pressure, and fiercely dedicated to her mission.
Eventually, Andrée was betrayed and arrested by the Gestapo. Even under brutal interrogation, she refused to give up her comrades or her mission. She was executed at Ravensbrück c****************p at just 24, her last moments marked by the same bravery that had defined her brief but extraordinary life.
Andrée Borrel’s story is a reminder of the women who stepped into war zones not because they had to, but because they chose to fight for freedom, refusing to be passive observers of injustice. Her legacy, like that of so many women in the resistance, shows that courage is not the absence of fear but the choice to act despite it, even when the stakes are life and death.
Report
34points
Once you’re done reading through this list, we’d like to hear your thoughts in the comments, dear Pandas. Which of these stories captivated you the most? Were there any that you knew about from before? What female figures from history inspire you to this day?
What do you do to develop a deeper understanding of human history? What historical periods fascinate you the most? Let us know!
#16
Imagine the horror: Lying on a beach, surrounded by the bodies of your fellow nurses, as the sound of gunfire fades and the waves wash over you. This was the reality for Vivian Bullwinkel, an Australian nurse and one of the bravest women in history.
During World War II, after the fall of Singapore, Vivian and 21 other nurses were marched into the sea on Bangka Island—and executed by Japanese soldiers. Miraculously, Vivian was shot but survived by playing dead, clinging to life as the tide carried her to shore.
But her courage didn’t end there. Despite her wounds, she hid in the jungle for 12 days before surrendering—only to endure three and a half years as a prisoner of war. Even in the brutal conditions of the camp, she continued nursing in secret, saving lives while facing starvation, disease, and cruelty.
After liberation, she became the sole survivor to testify about the m******e—ensuring the world would never forget the atrocities committed. She later dedicated her life to nursing and veterans’ welfare, proving that resilience and compassion can triumph over even the darkest evil.
Vivian’s story is a testament to the strength of women—the kind that refuses to be broken, no matter the cost. Let’s honor her memory and remember: We are capable of so much more than we know.
During World War II, after the fall of Singapore, Vivian and 21 other nurses were marched into the sea on Bangka Island—and executed by Japanese soldiers. Miraculously, Vivian was shot but survived by playing dead, clinging to life as the tide carried her to shore.
But her courage didn’t end there. Despite her wounds, she hid in the jungle for 12 days before surrendering—only to endure three and a half years as a prisoner of war. Even in the brutal conditions of the camp, she continued nursing in secret, saving lives while facing starvation, disease, and cruelty.
After liberation, she became the sole survivor to testify about the m******e—ensuring the world would never forget the atrocities committed. She later dedicated her life to nursing and veterans’ welfare, proving that resilience and compassion can triumph over even the darkest evil.
Vivian’s story is a testament to the strength of women—the kind that refuses to be broken, no matter the cost. Let’s honor her memory and remember: We are capable of so much more than we know.
Report
33points
#17
Fanny Mendelssohn was a brilliant composer who wrote over 460 pieces of music, yet her work was largely suppressed due to 19th-century societal norms. While her brother Felix became world-famous, Fanny was told by her father that music could only be an "ornament" for her, not a profession.
Her brother published some of her songs under his own name, once famously admitting to Queen Victoria that his sister had actually written one of the Queen's favorite pieces attributed to him. A year before her death, Fanny finally defied her family and published music under her own name. Today, her vast and influential work is finally being rediscovered and celebrated, rightfully placing her among the great classical composers.
Her brother published some of her songs under his own name, once famously admitting to Queen Victoria that his sister had actually written one of the Queen's favorite pieces attributed to him. A year before her death, Fanny finally defied her family and published music under her own name. Today, her vast and influential work is finally being rediscovered and celebrated, rightfully placing her among the great classical composers.
Report
31points
#18
Elizabeth Packard’s story is both heartbreaking and deeply inspiring. In 1860, after years of marriage and raising six children, her husband used the law to have her committed to an insane asylum. His reason wasn’t violence or instability—it was that she dared to think differently. Elizabeth questioned his strict Calvinist views and voiced her own independent beliefs, and at that time in Illinois, a husband could institutionalize his wife without any proof, without trial, and without her consent.
Inside the asylum, Elizabeth quickly realized that many of the women around her weren’t “insane” at all. They were simply inconvenient—wives who resisted, daughters who disobeyed, women who challenged the narrow roles forced upon them. Rather than breaking her spirit, the experience sharpened her resolve. She observed everything, took careful notes, and planned for the day she could share the truth.
After three years, she managed to get her case before a court. Her husband tried to paint her as unstable, but Elizabeth stood her ground. She spoke clearly, defended her right to her own thoughts, and won her freedom. The moment was more than personal vindication—it was a public statement that women were not property and their voices could not be dismissed as madness.
But she didn’t stop there. Elizabeth took her fight further, writing books about her ordeal and lobbying for changes in the law. Her persistence led to reforms that gave women greater protection from wrongful confinement and expanded their rights within marriage.
Her courage came at a time when defying a husband could cost a woman everything—her children, her reputation, even her freedom. Yet she chose truth over silence. Elizabeth Packard turned her personal injustice into a movement that made it harder for others to be silenced the way she was.
Inside the asylum, Elizabeth quickly realized that many of the women around her weren’t “insane” at all. They were simply inconvenient—wives who resisted, daughters who disobeyed, women who challenged the narrow roles forced upon them. Rather than breaking her spirit, the experience sharpened her resolve. She observed everything, took careful notes, and planned for the day she could share the truth.
After three years, she managed to get her case before a court. Her husband tried to paint her as unstable, but Elizabeth stood her ground. She spoke clearly, defended her right to her own thoughts, and won her freedom. The moment was more than personal vindication—it was a public statement that women were not property and their voices could not be dismissed as madness.
But she didn’t stop there. Elizabeth took her fight further, writing books about her ordeal and lobbying for changes in the law. Her persistence led to reforms that gave women greater protection from wrongful confinement and expanded their rights within marriage.
Her courage came at a time when defying a husband could cost a woman everything—her children, her reputation, even her freedom. Yet she chose truth over silence. Elizabeth Packard turned her personal injustice into a movement that made it harder for others to be silenced the way she was.
Report
30points
#19
The Magdalene asylums, or Magdalene laundries, operated for centuries—from the 1700s all the way into the late 20th century—locking away generations of women under the guise of "moral redemption." At their peak in the 19th and early 20th centuries, these institutions spread across Ireland, the UK, the U.S., Canada, and Australia, run primarily by Catholic orders but sometimes Protestant groups as well.
What’s especially chilling is how long they lasted. While many assume such oppressive systems belonged to the distant past, Ireland’s last Magdalene laundry didn’t close until 1996. That means women alive today—mothers, grandmothers, sisters—were imprisoned within living memory, forced to scrub floors, work in stifling laundries, and endure psychological and physical abuse, all while being told they were sinners in need of repentance.
For over 200 years, these institutions thrived because society allowed them to. Families, churches, and even governments colluded in sending "difficult" women away—unmarried mothers, abuse survivors, girls deemed too flirtatious, or even those with intellectual disabilities. Once inside, many were given new names, forbidden from speaking of their pasts, and treated as indentured servants. Some never left.
The legacy of the laundries is a stark reminder: oppression doesn’t always look like chains and dungeons. Sometimes, it wears the mask of charity, morality, and "for their own good." And though the last laundry doors have closed, the echoes remain—in the unmarked graves of forgotten women, in the survivors still fighting for justice, and in the systems that still police women’s bodies and choices today.
We remember them. Not as fallen, but as forgotten—and demand that history never repeats its cruelty.
What’s especially chilling is how long they lasted. While many assume such oppressive systems belonged to the distant past, Ireland’s last Magdalene laundry didn’t close until 1996. That means women alive today—mothers, grandmothers, sisters—were imprisoned within living memory, forced to scrub floors, work in stifling laundries, and endure psychological and physical abuse, all while being told they were sinners in need of repentance.
For over 200 years, these institutions thrived because society allowed them to. Families, churches, and even governments colluded in sending "difficult" women away—unmarried mothers, abuse survivors, girls deemed too flirtatious, or even those with intellectual disabilities. Once inside, many were given new names, forbidden from speaking of their pasts, and treated as indentured servants. Some never left.
The legacy of the laundries is a stark reminder: oppression doesn’t always look like chains and dungeons. Sometimes, it wears the mask of charity, morality, and "for their own good." And though the last laundry doors have closed, the echoes remain—in the unmarked graves of forgotten women, in the survivors still fighting for justice, and in the systems that still police women’s bodies and choices today.
We remember them. Not as fallen, but as forgotten—and demand that history never repeats its cruelty.
Report
28points
#20
Eglantyne Jebb was a woman ahead of her time, driven by fierce compassion and moral clarity. Born into privilege in 1876, she could have easily chosen a life of comfort and quiet charity. Instead, she dedicated herself to confronting the harsh realities faced by children in the aftermath of World War I—many of whom were starving, orphaned, and forgotten. Jebb believed that no child, no matter their nationality or circumstance, should suffer because of the failures of adults.
In 1919, she founded Save the Children, an organization built not on pity but on the belief in every child’s right to survival, protection, and opportunity. Her activism was radical for its time. She was arrested for distributing leaflets protesting the British blockade that kept food from reaching children in postwar Europe, but her conviction only deepened her resolve. She didn’t just want to feed children—she wanted to give them a voice in a world that treated them as invisible.
A few years later, Jebb drafted the first-ever Declaration of the Rights of the Child, a bold document that would lay the groundwork for the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child decades later. It stated that children had the right to grow, learn, and be protected regardless of race, religion, or circumstance—a revolutionary idea in an age when children were often viewed as extensions of their parents, not as individuals with their own rights.
In 1919, she founded Save the Children, an organization built not on pity but on the belief in every child’s right to survival, protection, and opportunity. Her activism was radical for its time. She was arrested for distributing leaflets protesting the British blockade that kept food from reaching children in postwar Europe, but her conviction only deepened her resolve. She didn’t just want to feed children—she wanted to give them a voice in a world that treated them as invisible.
A few years later, Jebb drafted the first-ever Declaration of the Rights of the Child, a bold document that would lay the groundwork for the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child decades later. It stated that children had the right to grow, learn, and be protected regardless of race, religion, or circumstance—a revolutionary idea in an age when children were often viewed as extensions of their parents, not as individuals with their own rights.
Report
28points