From the moment I could dream, I wanted to be a princess. Not just any princess—This was not a fleeting childhood whim; it was the quiet heartbeat of my entire life. Even now, as an adult, that little girl inside me still looks at the world through tinted glasses. She hopes for magic and rescue. She dreams of a love that feels like it was written in the stars.
Ever since I was a little girl, fairy tales were never just bedtime stories. They were blueprints for how life should feel. I grew up listening to different princess stories than you. I mean every culture has its own rendition of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White. I devoured these stories. I was captivated by the princesses’ grace under pressure. Their kindness eventually led to their happily ever afters. I did not just want the happy ending; I wanted the entire experience. I longed for the gentle spoiling by a doting prince (and life itself). I yearned for the soft protection from the world’s harsher realities. I craved that undeniable sense of being seen and valued.
I craved being spoiled by life in the sweetest ways. Surprise flowers would delight me. Someone remembering my favorite coffee order on a bad day would lift my spirits. I cherished simply feeling like the universe had my back. Beside my desire for abundance and delight, I also deeply wanted to be saved. I longed to be rescued from sadness and loneliness. I yearned to escape the weight of carrying everything alone. I wanted arms that would wrap around me and say, “You don’t have to be strong right now. I got you.”
This is not about laziness or entitlement. It is about yearning for a softer existence. One where my vulnerability is met with strength and my sensitivity is celebrated rather than criticized.
Of course, every good fairytale needs its villain, right? In my story, my cousin first played that role. I affectionately refer to her as my “evil stepsister.” Growing up, her teasing and bullying left deep marks on my young heart. She was seemingly perfect and she made sure I knew that I was not perfect. Her actions portrayed her as the ideal antagonist in my personal fairytale. I continued to question my worth throughout my life because of it.
Essentially, those experiences did not break me—they shaped me. They reinforced my identity as the misunderstood princess waiting for her turning point. I learned to retreat into my imagination, where I could be graceful and worthy instead of awkward and overlooked. I built emotional walls disguised as daydreams. I always held out hope that one day my real story would begin. To this day, my mother loves to tell me that I live in lala land.
Looking back, I see how that dynamic taught me resilience, even if it hurt at the time. But it also cemented something deeper: my tendency to frame my entire life around the “damsel in distress” archetype. (Thank you Pretty Woman!)
I have basically organized my whole existence around this identity, and I am finally okay admitting it. I love romance that feels epic. I adore knights in shining armor who make me feel protected and adored. I thrive when life offers little sadness and provides moments of pampering. But unfortunately it is not all sparkle and glass slippers. It means I feel emotions intensely—joy like fireworks, sadness like storms.
I have had moments where I wondered if this part of me was too much. I have turned to my boyfriend with wide eyes and asked, “Am I simply too much?” His responses have been patient and loving. They remind me that wanting to feel cherished is not a flaw—it is a feature. I am not terribly spoiled. I do not demand the impossible or throw tantrums when things do not go my way. I just carry this princess heart. It believes life can be kinder. Relationships can be more. I deserve to be treated with tenderness.
This identity has influenced my career choices (or lack thereof), my friendships, and especially my romantic life. I seek connections where I can be soft without being seen as weak. I want to give my all to someone who sees my sensitivity as a gift, not a burden. And yes, I still believe in being saved sometimes. It is not because I am helpless. It is because partnership should include lifting each other up. And I know that I inspire/ motivate him.
The older I get, the more I realize that being a princess does not mean waiting in a tower forever. It means wearing the crown despite the life limitations that are around me.
I still want the magic. I still hope for grand gestures and quiet moments of being adored. But I am also writing my own story now. In this story, the princess has agency—does not just lay down. She attracts people who match her energy rather than just rescue her from it.
So here I am—still that little girl at heart, but with bigger dreams and a stronger sense of self. Proving that wanting softness in a hard world is not weakness and craving love that feels protective and spoiling is not childish.
Life has not always been a fairytale, but I am learning to create the chapters I always wanted. And who knows? Maybe my prince is already here while still leaving room for a little magic.
Tag: marriage
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The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart
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Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion
Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.
I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).
A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.
Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.
I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.
I will not be synthetically made better.
I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.
Only the natural way.
Only the forever way.And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.
This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.
In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.
This is how I love.
This is how I fight.
This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive. -
Discovering Strength Through Pain: A Journey
I used to think that my father was the strongest man. I never see him cry and I never see him ask for approval. But when I was at Syracuse University, my mother dismantled us. I have always been a “daddy’s girl—“ you hurt him, you hurt me. Instead we were made to feel like something was wrong with us. Like we were just broken.
I hated to see him waive the white flag. I thought love was to be safe but instead I went into a tailspin. You hurt my father, you hurt me. So I went even deeper into my downward spiral. I kept eating my feelings. One year later I would end up in a coma and I would be disabled.
The worst part is that my mother had rewritten the whole story to make her the hero. She made excuses so she could be seen as the victim. I remember calling a good friend of mine (she has too much Ukrainian pride now though) sitting on the ground outside of the county jail in tears. There is no hero in this story. This was the moment when I broke down even more
So I turned to the manosphere accounts on Twitter (RIP). The manosphere gave me solace. It taught me about the manipulation that caused my father to fold. It also evidently taught me to hate on women. I know this is not exactly the right way to live. However, you will never catch me screaming about girl power and glass ceilings. I love men. I think that they are the greatest people on the planet. I also felt like I was being broken and betrayed by a woman. And I took it out on her. I took it too far.
I was already spiraling (because), but now I went down even further.
I learned how strength and weakness are not just physical— but instead strength is spine. Being able to say “no” instead of the quiet surrender I witnessed. I know that I should forgive. Holding onto pain only hurts you. But you cannot forgive when they keep taking. It is not pain and it is not hate— I do not have the energy for that.
We were dismantled. I was dismantled. It lead me towards rock bottom— but now I only have energy for progress and achieving my goals and desires.
Kat’s Musings 