The Princess Problem

Maybe I was wrong to let tiaras and tulle freak me out

When our oldest was about three, she became absolutely obsessed with princesses.

And honestly? I panicked a little.

Like many parents, we had entered parenthood with an agreement: to raise our kids outside of rigid gender norms. We wanted them to feel free to be themselves—to express their full humanity without the limiting stories culture tends to slap on children the moment they're assigned “boy” or “girl” at birth.

So when princess mania hit, I braced myself. I didn’t want to project my baggage onto her, but I also didn’t want her soaking up messages I hadn’t had a chance to unpack with her yet.

We’d spent the first few years being really intentional about the media and toys we brought into our home. Puffin Rock, the Koala Brothers, and a steady rotation of the live-action Garfield movie gave us safe ground for a while. We steered clear of gendered plotlines and tropes. We held off on Disney princesses altogether—for their tired story arcs, their racial and gender implications, and the tendency to equate beauty with virtue.

And then 2020 happened.

Suddenly, we were expected to work full-time jobs with toddlers in the house and no childcare. Disney+ became survival.

It started with Moana and Frozen, but it quickly snowballed into full-blown princess culture. (Yes, including Cinderella. Yes, including Sleeping Beauty. Sigh.)

Each Disney princess film brings its own problems—racial generalizations, beauty standards, passivity, coded language around worthiness, and more. But taken together, the messaging is even more insidious.

Here’s what’s baked into a lot of the princess content:

• Beauty = goodness. Villains are almost always marked by a lack of beauty, or by exaggerated features that set them apart. (Big noses, deep voices, disability, fatness—these traits often signal “bad” to a child before the plot even begins.)

• Girls are defined by their proximity to others: fathers, princes, evil stepmothers. Their sense of identity is relational.

• Compliance, silence, and sacrifice are praised.

• The heroines tend to win by enduring, not resisting.

Is it possible to critique all of that? Of course. And should we? Yes. But we also knew our kids weren’t yet ready to deconstruct these messages without support. We wanted to provide context for these stories. We wanted to support their development of a critical eye and counter-feedback so the cultural tide didn’t carry them away.

(If this is your jam, I highly recommend Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein. It's such a valuable deep-dive.)

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We noticed something shift once our oldest started full-time daycare. Suddenly, she was coming home with ideas about “boy toys” and “girl toys.” She was spending more time playing with girls than boys, sorting kids by gender, and echoing stereotypes we hadn’t introduced at home.

It felt like we’d lost control of the narrative. Which, of course, we had. That’s how culture works. It’s ambient. It seeps in through peers, teachers, playground games, commercials, packaging, even well-meaning adults who separate kids into “girls’ lines” and “boys’ lines.”

This is one of the reasons we tried to remove gendered language as much as possible at home. I can’t recommend Parenting Beyond Pink and Blue by Christia Spears enough. One takeaway that stuck with me: the more often we use gendered language, the more we reinforce the idea that gender is the most important part of someone’s identity.

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How we talk matters

These statements probably sound familiar:

• “You’re such a brave little girl!”

• “You’re such a loving boy!”

• “Smart girl! Funny girl! Sweet girl!”

They’re meant to be empowering. They combat common narratives. But they’re still reinforcing two strong messages:

1. Traits are tied to gender.

2. Gender is the most important trait.

In those examples, gender is repeated over and over. The child hears “girl” or “boy” more than they hear “brave,” “smart,” or “funny.” Our brains register frequency as importance. So a kid absorbs: I’m a girl first. Brave second.

Even well-meaning efforts to challenge gender stereotypes often fall short because they still center gender.

So what do we do instead?

De-emphasize the binary.

• Use gender-neutral language: “kid” instead of “boy/girl,” “friends” instead of “ladies and gentlemen.”

• Talk about traits more than gender: “You’re brave,” “You’re kind,” “You’re so curious.”

• Normalize neutral terms: firefighter, police officer, postal worker, parent, cowpoke, alderperson.

• Ditch the hashtags: #boymom, #girlgang, #mamasboy all send a message that your child’s gender is a central part of your identity, too—which may be hard for them to challenge if they don’t identify with it.

If we want to create safe spaces for LGBTQIA+ kids and questioners, this work starts young. Moreover, regardless of sexuality or gender, we ALL deserve the space to express ourselves wholly, without feeling confined by gendered scripts. We have to show our kids that who they are is more important than how the world labels them. We have to show each other that who we are is enough.

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Despite our initial knee-jerk reaction to move away from the world of princesses, when our household became princess-obsessed, we treated it the same way we treat dinosaurs, trucks, animals, or sports: neutral. Just one of many things kids can love, explore, and play with. Regardless of gender.

When our daughter got into princess gear, we didn’t shut it down. We leaned in thoughtfully.

We went searching for books that centered the real traits she loved in those stories: bravery, adventure, kindness, curiosity. We wanted books that weren’t obsessed with beauty or love interests. We wanted characters who ruled in their own right.

That search was surprisingly hard.

So I’ve done the work for you.

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Not-terrible princess books we love:

(aka: stories that don’t make you want to throw glitter into the void)

• The Worst Princess by Anna Kemp - An empowering story of a princess who chooses herself.

• The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch – A classic that flips the “rescue me” narrative on its head.

• The Princess in Black by Shannon Hale and Dean Hale – Secret superhero? Yes please.

• Interstellar Cinderella by Deborah Underwood – A space-savvy twist where our girl fixes her own ship and her destiny.

• Not All Princesses Dress in Pink by Jane Yolen & Heidi E.Y. Stemple – Because obviously.

• Princess Hair by Sharee Miller – Short and sweet, and celebrates different hair textures with joy.

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Gentle stories about boys:

• Tough Guys Have Feelings Too by Keith Negley – A must-have if you’re trying to raise emotionally literate kids.

• The Storybook Knight by Helen & Thomas Docherty – A dragon-fighting knight who prefers books to swords? Yes.

• Real Cowboys by Kate Hoefler – Quiet, poetic, and breaks the mold beautifully.

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Final thought

I was being reductive and shallow in my dismissal of princesses. All imaginative play is an opportunity. It can be tender. It can be bold. It can be brave.

Stories are opportunities, too. To see the full spectrum of who we are, not just what we’re expected to be.

Creative play and storytelling can be an invitation to imagine a world where power is compassionate, relationships are central, and curiosity wins the day.

If this resonated with you, come hang out with me over on ThatDarnChat.Substack.com or join the conversations Crystal Britt and I are having about care work and culture at TimeToLeanPod.Substack.com.

Preorder my book! No More Mediocre: A Call to Reimagine Our Relationships and Demand More