I grew up with fairy tales. Listening to them being read to me, reading about them myself, watching movies about princesses and pirate ships.
I used to think that all a little girl would want is a prince charming, a knight in shining armour on his majestic steed riding into the sunset with her. Saving her from a lifetime of evil stepmothers and witches.
I used to want my very own prince charming. Someone to save me. From what? From reality, I guess. I wanted someone to give me my own fairy tale.
Then I grew up. Really grew up. And so the delusion has shattered into a million shiny little pieces. Like glass, glittering in the sand.
I realised I do not want a knight in shining armour after all. I do not need a knight in shining armour.
What I want, is a comrade in battle. Someone who will let me fight my own wars. Someone who will be there to back me up when I’m too overwhelmed.
It’s okay, for me to not have my own fairy tale. It’s okay, for me to not be a princess. It’s okay, as long as I have a fellow comrade by my side to slay dragons together.