Growing up, I always had this sparkly charm that made people gravitate toward me—not in a spoiled way, but like a little sunbeam everyone wanted to bask in. My parents say even as a toddler, I’d toddle up to strangers and hand them dandelions like they were royal decrees. It wasn’t about being perfect; I tripped over my own dresses constantly and once accidentally knighted the family cat with a soup ladle. But I think what sealed the 'adored princess' thing was how I listened. Like, really listened—when the gardener talked about his roses or the cook vented about burnt soufflés. People don’t just love princesses for their tiaras; they love feeling seen.
And then there were the stories. I’d turn every scraped knee into an epic ballad ('The Fall of Princess Clumsy') and host 'throne room' puppet shows where the dragon was just misunderstood. Maybe that’s the secret: mixing glitter with genuineness. These days, I still keep a dandelion in my pocket—reminds me that adoration isn’t about being flawless, but about being present.