The Rose That Became the Prince
Not Just the Rose. Not Just the Prince.
A true story of transformation, told in the spirit of “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
The rose bloomed. The prince grew. And the storyteller was born. If there is a tale: I am a galaxy of contradictions, a memory of stars, and a survivor of storms.
Once, I Was a Rose
Delicate, radiant, full of thorns I didn’t yet understand. I bloomed on a small planet called Home—surrounded by people who saw my petals but never asked what weather shaped me. They praised how I shined but feared how fiercely I grew. And though I longed to be held with care, I masked my fragility with pride. Because no one asked why. They just expected more.
So I left.
I Became a Prince
Like the Little Prince, I crossed invisible skies—oceans, time zones, entire languages of emotion. I chased the promise of becoming: not because I was ungrateful, but because I was unfinished. There were gifts inside me I couldn't yet reach. And I believed—fiercely—that if I suffered enough, if I worked enough, if I bled enough brilliance into this world, it would mean something.
But when I got there, I found myself surrounded by people who only saw my engine. They measured my output, not my longing. They fed off my strength but starved my spirit. They wanted a machine, not a girl who had once spoken to stars.
So I stopped explaining. Not to them. Not to God. Not even to myself.
This is the path I chose: imperfect but sacred.
And yet, I have loved. And I have lost. I have held hands across continents, kissed cheeks I may never see again, and whispered promises to the night that only the moon remembers. I’ve missed birthdays, buried parts of myself, and smiled while my heart was breaking. Because love—real love—isn’t always where you expect it. Sometimes it comes in a stranger’s kindness. Sometimes, it’s a flight home. Sometimes, it’s a quiet morning where no one demands a thing from you.
As the fox said,
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
And I have wasted so much time becoming this woman.
I am no longer only the rose. I became the prince too: the one who wandered, who wept, who realized that love is not perfection—it is presence. It is the watering of what you value, even when the world calls you foolish for it.
But what they don’t know is:
I’ve been through hell. More than once. Places so silent and dark they made me forget I was alive. But I always remembered the way out. Because I am the fire.
Someday, I Will Be a Narrator
The one who writes not from the wounds, but from the wisdom they left behind. The one who reminds others that reality is stark. That love does hurt. That beauty must be earned not through struggle, but through sincerity.
The rose bloomed. The prince grew. And the storyteller was born. I have become all three.
And now, I shape my life like a sculpture.
One day at a time.
Soft hands. Sharp vision. A heart that’s still learning how to stay open.
So if you truly see me, know this:
I am not a woman you can summarize. I am a galaxy of contradictions, a memory of stars, a survivor of storms.
But above all,
I am the rose that dared to become.