In the world of live television, seven seconds is an eternity. It’s long enough for a joke to land, for a technical glitch to become a meme, or for an entire studio audience to hold its collective breath. On July 25, 2025, during a heated segment on The View, seven seconds of tense, crackling silence became the prelude to a cultural explosion, a moment so sharp and definitive it felt instantly etched into the annals of television history. On one side was Karoline Leavitt, a young, fiery commentator. On the other was Whoopi Goldberg, an EGOT winner, a cultural icon, and the unflappable moderator of the panel.
The segment was billed as a “multi-generational conversation on women and media,” a topic ripe for nuanced discussion. But nuance was quickly abandoned. The conversation began with Whoopi reflecting on her landmark roles in films like The Color Purple and Sister Act. She spoke of a time when stories like hers, centered on the lives and struggles of Black women, were not just rare—they were revolutionary. “The goal,” she explained, her voice carrying the weight of experience, “was for women like me to be heard in a time when our stories were often silenced.”
It was a heartfelt opening, a defense of the narratives that had paved the way for so many. But Leavitt saw it differently. Leaning forward, she delivered a rebuttal that was less a counterpoint and more a broadside attack. “Maybe it’s time we stop pretending pain is power,” she began, her tone dismissive. “All these stories about crying women, victims in period dresses, nuns with broken dreams — it’s not empowering anymore. It’s exhausting.”
The air in the studio immediately changed. Joy Behar’s eyes darted sideways. Sunny Hostin leaned back, her hand frozen on her cup. Leavitt wasn’t just disagreeing; she was erasing. She was taking the foundational struggles of a previous generation and labeling them as tired and irrelevant. She continued, doubling down on her point, “And with all due respect, I’m tired of being told to idolize characters who were rescued, broken, or voiceless. That’s not strength. That’s nostalgia. And it’s holding young women back.”
Then came the silence. Seven seconds of it. The camera held on Whoopi’s face as she processed the remarks. There was no immediate anger, no outburst. There was a profound, intentional stillness, the kind that precedes a storm. Leavitt, perhaps sensing the shift, began to look uneasy. Her confident smirk faltered. She had thrown a grenade, but it was Whoopi who held the pin.
When Whoopi finally spoke, her voice was low, clear, and devoid of the fury that was surely brewing beneath the surface. It was a single, devastating sentence, a question that was also a verdict.
“You mock the stories that made women feel human again — and think that makes you strong?”
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. There was no comeback. No defense. Leavitt froze, her mouth agape, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. The studio audience erupted, not just in applause, but in a roar of validation. In that moment, Whoopi hadn’t just defended her films; she had defended the very idea that there is strength in survival, power in vulnerability, and dignity in telling the stories of those who have suffered.
To understand the depth of this exchange, one must understand the cultural significance of the work Leavitt so casually dismissed. Steven Spielberg’s 1985 adaptation of Alice Walker’s The Color Purple was more than a movie. For Black women, it was a mirror. Whoopi Goldberg’s portrayal of Celie, a woman who endures unimaginable abuse, incest, and degradation, was a masterclass in quiet resilience. The film was controversial, criticized by some for its portrayal of Black men, but its power lay in its unflinching depiction of Celie’s journey toward self-worth. Her iconic line, “I’m poor, black, I may even be ugly, but dear God, I’m here!” was a declaration of existence for millions who felt invisible. It argued that survival itself is a form of victory, and finding one’s voice after it has been stolen is the ultimate act of power. This was not a story of a “rescued, broken” woman; it was the story of a woman who rescues herself through the power of sisterhood and self-love.
Similarly, Sister Act was not just a fun-filled comedy about a lounge singer hiding in a convent. It was one of the most successful female-led comedies of its time, anchored by a Black woman. It was a story about community, about disparate women finding common ground and a collective voice. Deloris Van Cartier doesn’t just save herself; she revitalizes an entire community by teaching the nuns to find joy, confidence, and strength in their own voices. These films weren’t about “pain as power,” as Leavitt reductively claimed; they were about finding power despite the pain.
The clash on The View was a perfect microcosm of a larger, ongoing debate about the nature of female strength in media. For years, the “strong female character” has been a Hollywood trope, often defined by traditionally masculine traits: physical prowess, emotional detachment, and a singular focus on a goal. We see her in the stoic action hero, the ruthless CEO, the ninja with commitment issues. This is the narrow version of strength Leavitt seemed to be championing—a strength defined by “wins.”
But this definition is profoundly limiting. It leaves no room for the strength of vulnerability, the courage of empathy, or the resilience of those who endure. Characters like Celie challenge this trope. Her strength isn’t in her ability to throw a punch; it’s in her ability to keep her heart open after it has been shattered. It’s in her quiet observation, her enduring hope, and her eventual, hard-won liberation. Whoopi’s sentence cut to the heart of this matter: mistaking this kind of nuanced, deeply human strength for weakness is a fundamental misunderstanding of the female experience.
This is also a story about a generational divide in feminism. Leavitt’s perspective, whether she would label it feminist or not, aligns with a modern, “girlboss” ethos that prioritizes individual achievement and visible success. It’s a perspective born of a world where women have more opportunities than ever before—opportunities that were hard-won by previous generations. For many younger women, the battles of the past feel like ancient history. The fight for basic representation, for the right to tell one’s own story, has been won, so now the focus shifts to the kind of stories being told.
Whoopi’s perspective, however, comes from being on the front lines of those battles. She represents a generation that had to fight just to be seen as human, let alone strong. For her, the stories of struggle aren’t “exhausting nostalgia”; they are the necessary, foundational texts that made the current conversation even possible. Her response was a powerful reminder to a younger generation: do not become so focused on the destination that you forget the journey, and do not tear down the monuments of those who paved the road you now walk on so freely.
The now-infamous exchange on The View was more than a viral clip. It was a teachable moment, a cultural litmus test. It forced a national conversation about what we value in our stories and in our women. Do we only celebrate the victors, the flawless, the ones who show no scars? Or do we find strength in the struggle, beauty in the brokenness, and power in the stories that remind us of our shared, complex, and often painful humanity? Whoopi Goldberg, with one perfectly aimed sentence, made her answer crystal clear. And in the seven seconds of silence that preceded it, and the thunderous applause that followed, it became clear that a vast audience agreed.
