“You Know What? I Quit.” — A Royal Monologue by Queen Cinderella

“You Know What? I Quit.” — A Royal Monologue by Queen Cinderella

"You Know What? I Quit."

A first-person narrative by Cinderella

You know what? I quit.

There. I said it.

I’m supposed to be the happiest woman alive. The girl who got everything she ever wanted. The fairy tale princess who married the prince, moved into the castle, had the perfect children, and lived happily ever after.

But you know what no one tells you?

“Happily ever after” is exhausting.

It’s exhausting to always smile. To always be poised. To always be perfectly polished, powdered, and polite. It’s exhausting to wear the same perfect baby blue gown every day like some uniform of joy. To pin my hair into the same flawless bun that doesn’t move even in hurricane winds. And don’t get me started on those glass slippers. Do you know how painful those are? Who thought glass was a good idea for footwear?

Yes, I’m still a size zero. Yes, my husband is six-foot-three with a jawline sharp enough to slice through royal decree parchment. And yes, our children are honor roll darlings who say “please” and “thank you” and never roll their eyes or talk back.

But none of it feels real.

Not anymore.

I didn’t realize something was missing until I started craving it. Passion. Spontaneity. Mess. Life. The kind that doesn’t come pre-approved by the Royal Advisory Council.

There’s no mess in my life. Not in my home. Not in my marriage. Not in my children’s carefully curated public appearances. My kids? They never get dirty. They don’t track mud through the palace or argue over toys. They do their homework without being asked. They fold their clothes. They thank the butler. It’s like living with a trio of enchanted etiquette manuals.

But the truth?

I want a little rebellion. I want crayon marks on the royal portrait gallery. I want to be called “mean mom” just once. I want to hear “I hate broccoli” shouted across the golden dining hall.

And the King... well.

Let’s just say, passion was not part of the royal inheritance.

We have our routine. Our respectable, scheduled intimacy. Always at night. Always in the bedroom. Always under the sheets with the drapes drawn tight. No surprises. No hallway kisses. No risk. No spark.

I tried once — just once — to pull him close in the hallway. I had this strange, wild urge to be kissed like I mattered, like I was wanted not just loved. He looked confused. Pulled away. Said something about “not here, darling.”

That was the moment I realized something had shifted.

Maybe it started with the apple.

Yes, that apple. The one from the forbidden garden at the edge of the royal forest — the one we were specifically told to stay away from. It was just one bite. Juicy, crisp, strangely intoxicating. I shared it with him. But while something awoke in me — something deep and hungry and alive — he stayed exactly the same.

Polite. Reserved. Predictable.

Even our daily strolls through the royal gardens feel like watching paint dry. The gardeners win national competitions for our rose bushes. The hedges are sculpted like works of art. But all I can think is: Why can’t he push me up against one of them? Just once?

I miss the days when life was messy and unpredictable. Not the cruelty of my stepmother, not the neglect — no, that’s not what I’m saying. But the uncertainty. The hope. The dreaming. I used to believe that happiness lived in perfection. That if I could just escape the ashes, the chores, the pain — I'd be complete.

But what I’ve learned?

Perfection is just another kind of prison. One with better lighting and a lot more gold leaf.

At the annual ball last night, I was radiant. The crowd gasped when I entered the ballroom. My gown shimmered like starlight. I smiled, nodded, danced gracefully on cue. But inside, I was dying. It was all so empty. Everyone was saying the right things. Laughing at the right times. Toasting to a kingdom that runs smoother than a grandfather clock.

But not a single person looked like they were truly alive.

Even our court sessions are ridiculous. No one interrupts. No one yells. People take turns, agree respectfully, and sip tea in silence. What happened to passion? To debate? To saying what you really mean?

And please — someone make the singing stop.

It never ends. If I walk into the kitchen, a chorus erupts from the dishwashers. If I walk down the corridor, a bird flies in to harmonize with the footmen. Every minor task turns into a musical number. I picked up a fork the other day, and they wrote a verse about it. Do you know how many verses I’ve heard about silverware?

It’s like living in an endless Broadway show with no intermission.

You want to know the part I’ve never said out loud?

Sometimes I wish I’d never gone to the ball.

I wish I hadn’t worn the gown or danced with the Prince or run down the stairs at midnight. I wish I hadn’t left that damn slipper behind. Because then maybe I wouldn’t be here — sitting in the most beautiful room in the world — feeling like I’m fading away.

I don’t want to leave the King. I don’t want to abandon my children. I’m not running off into the woods to join a biker gang of ex-princesses. But I am done pretending.

I quit perfection. I quit silence. I quit the idea that happiness only comes in well-behaved packages.

I want a life with fire. With voice. With feeling.

I want to kiss in the rain. Yell in the hallway. Dance without choreography. Laugh until I’m ugly crying. I want to hear my kids scream and stomp and say “no!” and mean it. I want to be real. I want to be whole.

So today, I walked into the throne room, stood beneath the chandeliers that cost more than my childhood village, and said — loud and clear:

“You know what? I quit.”

There were gasps. A maid fainted. The King blinked — slowly, like he hadn’t quite processed the words.

“I quit pretending,” I said. “I quit being perfect. I quit putting on a show every day.”

And just like that, I felt free.

Because truth isn’t perfect. It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s passionate. It’s alive.

So maybe I’m not quitting the kingdom.

Maybe I’m just reclaiming myself.

And I’m Cinderella.

And I approve this message.