BRAT and the Art of Effortless Empowerment

When BRAT by Charli XCX dropped, it didn’t just sound like a record, it looked like a manifesto. Neon green, glitchy lowercase lettering, bratty one-liners that sliced through the noise. It was giving main character energy without a hint of desperation. It didn’t ask to be iconic. It was.

That’s what hooked me. This wasn’t an album trying to be likable, it was trying to be loud. Loud in a way that didn’t apologize for taking up space. In a world that keeps nudging women toward softness, smoothness, and quiet grace, BRAT arrived sharp, jagged, unfiltered and impossible to ignore.

And to be honest, it’s about time.

Charli’s journey has been anything but instant. She’s been in the game for over a decade, writing hits for other artists (Boom Clap, I Love It, Fancy) while experimenting in the shadows pushing pop’s boundaries with futuristic, abrasive, genre-blurring sounds. For years, she was labeled “too weird” for the mainstream and “too pop” for the underground. Always ahead of the curve, rarely in the spotlight.

But now? The world’s finally caught up. BRAT feels like the moment the industry collectively woke up and said, Oh, wait, she’s been That Girl this whole time. It’s not a breakout. It’s a payoff.

And then I saw it live.

Primavera Sound. Barcelona. Night one. Charli was the headliner, and I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a more electric, unhinged, completely euphoric live set in my life. The energy was feral. Thousands of bodies moving like a single pulse, losing their minds to every drop, scream, and synth line. You could feel the collective tension and release in the air. People weren’t just watching a show. We were inside Charli’s perfectly curated universe.

It was insane. It was cathartic. It was everything the album promised, blown open on stage. That night rewired something in me. 

Because here’s the thing: anyone can slap on a “bad bitch” persona, but if it’s not rooted in anything real, it fades. Charli’s brat energy lands because it’s earned. It’s built on contradiction, bubblegum pop fused with dissonant club chaos, insecurity dancing right alongside egotistical bars. There’s substance behind the sass. History. Tension. Intention.

Empowerment doesn’t have to be deep or poetic. Sometimes it’s a scream. A synth stab. A lyric like “I don’t care, I just wanna dance.” Sometimes it’s a beat that rattles your bones and makes you feel like the most chaotic version of yourself the one you’re usually told to tone down.

BRAT doesn’t tell you to be fearless. It shows you what it looks like to own your mess and your power at the same time. That’s not childish — that’s radical. And honestly, I want to embody that more, not just in my music taste, but in how I move through the world.

To be bratty is to stop shrinking. To stop editing. To stop explaining your edges.

Because the most powerful thing a woman can do? Be too much. On purpose.