Like any other little girl, I once dreamed of being a princess. Maybe not exactly like the ones in the story books, but yes, I wanted to be a beautiful little princess that one day would find her blue prince; they would fall madly in love, and build an empire where they would eventually be kings and would live happily ever after.
I began to grow, and very early on I noticed that maybe the fairy tale had not been written with my character as the protagonist. However, being the dreamer and excessively romantic girl I always was, I tried to hold on to my imaginary diamond tiara as long as I could. I wrote stories, I dreamed with happy endings, and in my mind I married time and time again a tall and strong prince, but I never saw his face. My prince never had a face. I ask myself if that is why it has been so difficult to recognize him.
What happens is that no matter how much you try to change some paths, there are things that we are unable to change, and until we accept that, we won’t be able to be in tune with the path to our true destiny. My heart was set on being royalty, and I dressed the part, like the heiress of a great kingdom.
As time passed by, I came to realize that I was probably living a very dangerous lie. Then, the attacks began, the wars, the battles. And I? I ran. With my high heel shoes, my chiffon dress, my little diamond tiara, I ran. Defending myself never crossed my mind. A princess is supposed to have an army that fights for her. Why didn’t I? So I cried like the victim of my own fabricated conceptions and broken dreams.
After running for a while, my heels began to suffer and my dress got torn, I got tired of running from the dragons. I got tired of pretending to be the princess that hid behind a dress, a crown, and a smile to disguise that she cries in silence as she holds on to a dream.
Then, for the first time, I decided to follow my instinct.
I was sitting in front of a sea of lava, and possessed dragons flew in my direction. They spit fire balls that burned my eyebrows, and came close enough for me to feel their breath and fill my soul with terror. But I felt rage. The palms of my hands were filled with sweat, I know they could smell it, and they would lick my hands with their tongues roughly textured. They would rip my dress, and one of them, the strongest one, reached toward my chest and pierced my heart with his claws.
I looked around, I was alone. Surrounded by enemies, bleeding, with very little strength, but determined to survive. My hair was no longer straight and neat, it was now curly, wild, crazy.
In that instant I ripped the heels from my shoes and disposed of my dress. I took off my crown, which I would later use as a weapon against my enemies. It was at that very moment that I understood that I had to fight in order to survive. I wasn’t born for a crown or someone to protect me and fight for me. I was born, and have been trained to fight. I wanted to be a princess, without realizing I was born to be a warrior.
So with my body marked by scars, some so deep that I can’t find myself, I decided to encounter my destiny. I had to step up as the woman filled with courage more than dreams. Now, I find that a sword in my hand feels more natural than holding a flower, and leather on my skin suits way better than chiffon.
How about the blue prince charming?
Frankly, he doesn’t have to be blue, I’ll settle for one with a tan. I no longer dream with the prince that comes to my rescue riding a white horse to kiss me in my sleep.
My prince comes riding a dragon, because he too is arriving from a battle. He does not come searching for me, because like me, he is focused on surviving. My prince does not bring flowers, he brings a shield, and he is sweaty, with his eyes shinning with victory.
I will not find him in a castle. If we coincide, it will have to be on some battlefield decapitating monsters and throwing grenades.
He has to be even fiercer than I, brave, cold blooded. When he looks in my eyes he will get that there are things that I can’t say and weapons I am not willing to draw. He has to be willing to accept that I am not going to allow him to fight for me, but he must be stubborn enough to still try and rescue me. He will know that I can fight without him, and will understand that I can fight for him as well; and we won’t be kings of a castle, we will be warriors, gypsies, invincible, with an army of mystic creatures that fight in our favor.
He will understand that my strength does not come from me, but one that created me just as I am, and he will know that I don’t know how to raise princesses and princes, in my house we raise soldiers of life whose only option to win is to fight.
My prince will be proud of my scars, and I will be of his. He will know that there are no happy endings, because everything, even death, is a beginning. He will also know that when he touches me, his hands can be stained with blood, that doesn’t scare me; neither do the callouses in his hands hurt me. He will understand that my heart is broken, and he can’t repair it, all he can do is love it just the way it is so it hurts less, and make the pain livable.
My prince will understand that fighting together will draw us closer than sex, and that sex is our imaginary world where I can let my guard down, and he can ride his white horse.
I wanted to be a princess, I was raised to be one, and the world revolved for years around that idea. But I was born marked by battle. The internal one, the profound one, the kind that ends only when you do. Warrior women usually end up alone because we are equipped to handle it, and warrior men are usually looking for a princess to rescue. Too bad, I am not a princess, and I fight my own war. With my high heels, with my brain as sword, my intuition as shield, and my heart as a compass.
The man that enters my world can’t be an enchanted prince, he needs to be sent by destiny. He must manage the art of keeping secrets, he must have tactics for battle, he must be faithful to the side that fights for him, and he must understand that warrior women must fight some battles alone, but need someone to be standing by wishing with all their strength that she succeeds. He will be there waiting anxiously to see her walk through the door, wounded and exhausted. He will sit her on his lap and kiss her wounds and feel proud of what she is.