When I read Virginia Woolf’s defining feminist essay A Room of One’s Own in 2019, 90 years since it was first published, I was on the London Underground on my way home from work. Home was a room I could call my own insofar as I paid my own rent for it. I was already financially independent with a solid six years of experience as a journalist and writer, and had just obtained a masters degree. I was happily living my days reading, watching films and plays, and most important of all, writing. As far as Woolf’s essay was concerned, I had met the conditions that allowed a woman to create, as men have for far longer. And true enough I was writing and doing alright.