By Maybella Prurty
When you think of the most desirable woman in society’s eyes, what comes to mind? Quiet. Straight. Tame. Digestible. That was the blueprint I was handed growing up in a conservative household. I believed that to be loved or respected, I had to shrink myself to be less noisy, less bold, less me. Then I met Harley Quinn.
Not in real life, of course. But through comic books, video games, and movies, Harley exploded into my world like a firecracker. I mained her in Injustice. I read previews of her comics on Kindle because I couldn’t afford to buy them. I watched Suicide Squad religiously when it came out. Harley wasn’t quiet or tame. She was loud, messy, wild, and unapologetically queer. She made bad decisions—and sometimes, she fixed them. She didn’t fade into the background, but people loved her anyway, because she didn’t. That was a revelation for me.
Harley Quinn’s popularity shows a hunger for women who are bold enough to take up space and be loud about it. We sometimes forget we’re allowed to. Society has told girls for so long that we need to behave to sit still, speak softly, and never be “too much”. Even though the world is slowly changing, that pressure doesn’t disappear overnight. Its residue lingers. I was never a quiet kid. I sang constantly, made up dances in the living room, and found any excuse to be loud. But instead of being celebrated, I was told I was “too much.” Shame was my shadow. I tried to suppress parts of myself to fit into the mold of the “good girl” my family wanted.
That internal battle became exhausting. Discovering Harley Quinn felt like permission to stop fighting who I was. She helped me realize that being energetic, expressive, and loud isn’t a flaw—it’s part of my strength.
Beyond her wild personality, Harley also gave me something else I desperately needed: queer representation. I didn’t grow up with queer role models. In fact, I grew up hearing my parents sneer at queer people on TV. I learned to hide, to feel ashamed of my identity before I even had the words to describe it. Living in a small Florida town, surrounded by people who didn’t understand me, I felt isolated and invisible. So when I saw a character like Harley—flawed, vibrant, and openly queer—it was healing. It felt like being seen for the first time. She didn’t apologize for who she loved or how she dressed or how loud she was. She just was. And that visibility made all the difference. It helped me feel less alone. It helped me believe there was a place in the world for someone like me.
That belief led me to one of the most empowering things in my life: roller derby. I first fell in love with the sport when I read the comic where Harley moves to Coney Island and joins a roller derby team (Harley Quinn #1, 2013). I bought a physical copy of that issue, and it’s still one of my proudest possessions. From that moment, I knew I wanted to play.
Roller derby is everything society tells women not to be. It’s aggressive, competitive, and intense. It requires strength, confidence, and fearlessness—traits often labeled as “masculine”. But in derby, they’re celebrated. Women hit hard, skate fast, and shout from the sidelines. There’s no shrinking here. For me, it became more than a sport—it became a space to reclaim my power.
Harley Quinn isn’t perfect. That’s the point. She’s a work in progress, like all of us. But her existence as a loud, messy, complex, queer woman helped me survive and grow. She reminded me that I don’t need to be palatable to be powerful. I just need to be me.
Maybella Purty is is studying Costuming and History at American River College and plans to transfer to California State University, Long Beach