It Started With Dynasty. In Some Ways, It Never Ended.

Did you ever watch that show that was popular in the ’80s? It competed against Dallas, but in my opinion, it was no competition at all. I know that’s a controversial statement.

I didn’t watch it originally, but I caught reruns that aired in the ’90s. I was mesmerized. The fierce female characters, beaded evenings, big diamonds, even bigger egos, and the wealth—unimaginable to me as I watched enthralled.

Every episode was filled with drama. High-stakes emotions, champagne-soaked galas, and catfights in sparkling jewels and fluffy shoulder pads. Sweeping staircases and stunning men were waiting at the bottom to collect their hands. Even the stars themselves—Linda Evans and Joan Collins—were just as glamorous off-screen as Hollywood legends who attended star-studded events featuring red carpets and paparazzi. The rivalry between these two famous ladies dominated the tabloids.

Although I was late to the show, I could see where all the hype came from. Who wouldn’t want to live the lives of these powerful women? Their character names, Krystle Carrington and Alexis Colby, were as high fashion as their legendary hairdos.

I didn’t know it at the time, but those nights watching Dynasty living the lives of both the characters and actresses who played them planted seeds for how I’d later live. Maybe not the big shoulder pads. They really did make us look like mini linebackers. But the strong women, the men who loved them, and the lives they lived. It was a safe space where the women ruled the show their way. Passionate. Glamourous. Unapologetically. To get what they wanted in a high stakes game of power and influence.

The confidence, their elegance, and the underlying rage. Never shrinking or playing it small, no matter who tried to make them.

Fashion—The Armor We Choose

Looking back, I can pinpoint where it all started. Those nights with popcorn in hand, glued to the television—long before streaming became popular. My eyes eagerly watched the action while my brain cataloged their outfits as if I’d ever operate in a world where ballgowns and gloved hands reigned. It changed my fashion choices, leaning towards the more flamboyant or audacious. Fashion became a creative outlet for my own expression.

It shaped everything. My comfortable kitten shoes for the office were traded in for stilettos— minimum four inches, mostly five. Ridiculous in shapes and colors, some with pom-poms, ombre tri-colored, or even jeweled. The more outlandish the stiletto, the more conservative the clothing. Fire red stilettos complemented an all-black suit and a bold red lip. The navy blue dress was the opposite of the red, white, and blue polka dot ankle strap stilettos.

They were an expression, a throwback to the Dynasty wardrobe but on a much thriftier budget. And boy, did people notice! The stilettos became my signature shoes, something that drew attention when I walked into board meetings, banking conferences, or client luncheons. They shaped how I interacted—confident and assured. They shaped how I was perceived—interesting and individualistic.

Emulating Krystal Carrington, albeit a more modern version, even down to the platinum blond locks. The painted lip to match the manicured nails. Red, hot pink, or a muted pink, applicably named Pink Cloud. The fresh squirt of perfume before meetings, lunches, dinners, or client events. It was the same outer packaging as the Dynasty women.

Not Feminism—Something Else

Feminist. The very word brings strong opinions on both sides of the argument. I studied it in school. Yet, I wasn’t convinced it applied to me I didn’t want to burn my expensive Victoria’s Secret Dream Angel push-up bras. They were too pretty and too costly. I didn’t want to march and protest. It’s hot in Houston, and the humidity ruins all hairstyles.

Like most women, I adore clothes, accessories, stilettos, handbags, lipsticks, and perfumes. I desire what those women possessed. Fashion, freedom, choices, and a partner who supported them as they conquered the world.

It was a pull to something deeper. Women could be feminine and brilliant. They could raise kids and still command the boardroom. Women could lead with emotions and vulnerability and still be taken seriously. Promoted through the ranks to reach the top. Not a glass ceiling. Maybe glass heels. Kidding. Those would be painful to walk in.

Women who fight for careers, promotions, advancement, and legacies in the business world. Not to prove something but to be equal to their male counterparts in pursuing their desires and achieving their dreams.

Not perfect women. Perfection is a fallacy. Something that doesn’t exist. They’re not always likable, nor do they need or want to be. Smart, sexy, and bold. Which can be mistaken for tough. Sometimes tough women are called b*tch. But what are tough men called? Just tough.

 Paving the Way—Quietly and Loudly

Legacy. Most people who walk this Earth long enough think about their legacy. What will it be? What will they be remembered for? Both big and small achievements want to be remembered. I’m no different. I think about the women who came before me. I built my career on their backs. My mom specifically, from an era when women had a choice of three professions: nurse, teacher, or secretary.

My mother was the latter, even after attending college. It was the late ’60s, a time when smoking was allowed indoors, and gender-defined workplace dynamics prevailed. Think of the show Mad Men. She worked in that environment before she had children, became a homemaker, and then returned to the workplace in the early ’80s. While things had progressed, they did not experience the leaps and bounds we have seen in the last two decades. She went on to become an insurance agent with her own agency, where I used to hang out while doing homework.

Some of the most powerful changemakers didn’t hold picket signs, didn’t run the halls of the Capitol building trying to gain support for new legislation, or even wear beaded gowns while catfighting on screen in their diamond drop earrings.

They were single mothers working multiple jobs, grandmothers raising entire generations, teachers who believed in the “difficult” kids, or homemakers greeting the school bus every day to start homework while making dinner.

They paved the way.

They paved the way for me in corporate America and my transition to becoming a romance author. Women writing romance is popular. Commonplace even. Women reading romance is even more popular. Why?

Romance Stories—Emotional Survival

It’s a safe space. It’s where we relate. Where we flush out our characters. Deal with suppressed emotions. Make sense of stored trauma, past heartbreaks, and toxic relationships. Explore sexuality, curiosities, and other taboo experiences we’re either too afraid to ask for or have asked for and been ostracized.

Writing and reading romance is an escape into the world and lives of others. The same as millions of viewers who tuned in to see Krystal Carrington and Alexis Colby spit fire, pull hair, and rumple their expensive gowns. We related to them. Experienced the myriad of emotions they felt. They fell in love with the wrong man. Got left at the altar. Grieved the loss of a child. Cried on the bathroom floor after a betrayal. Fought to be heard in a boardroom full of men. Made impossible choices. And for the love of God, they had to start over again and again.

Whether you relate more to Krystle’s grace or Alexis’s grit, we see pieces of ourselves in them. Stripped of the shoulder pads, gowns, and champagne, they embody us. In the romance books we write and the love stories we read.

I don’t call this feminism. I call it fearless authenticity.

We are modern-day Krystles and Alexises. We may not be dripping in diamonds and descending grand staircases, but we’re still worthy of love, power, ambition, promotion, and passionate desires.

While I initially watched for their wealthy lifestyles, I stayed for the women carving out their legacies one Dynasty at a time.