My Cinderella Complex

Once upon a time…

I was invited to a ball. Well.. not so much a ball, but a fancy gala to one of my favorite Non-Profits. The gala was to be at one of the fanciest places in Ybor. They sold tickets, and had tables ready and place cards were set. Important people are set to be at this gala. People who were big names in the community. Old money.

If this were a fairy tale, they would be the Lords and Ladies of the land.

There was tons of work that went into this gala. Bands were hired, hosts were contacted, videos were created.

But I was texted 2 hours before the ball.

“Hey Tara. We have 2 extra tickets. If you want them, they’re yours.”

Of course I wanted to go! I love going places. Two hours should be plenty of time to get ready for a ball. I mean gala. So, I quickly finished the run I was on and went to prep for what was sure to be the time of my life!

Unfortunately I didn’t have a fairy god-mother to help me get dressed, but my neighbor was sort of willing to help me zip up my dress. (The joys and trials of living alone, friends.)


So, dressed in the most fabulous dress I could find in my closet, and with my hair curled and looking as beautiful as a two hour window will allow, I walked down the stairs to my makeshift pumpkin.

Heres a bit of the sad part. 

Unfortunately I was in an odd state of mind and I couldn’t think of any one to ask to go with me. So, like Cinderella, I headed to the ball gala alone hoping for a magical evening.  But I went alone anyway. I wanted to go, and even alone I was sure that I would at least enjoy myself.

When I got to the Ritz, the place of the ball I stood at the other side of the road
watching all the fabulous people walking inside arm in arm with each other laughing and enjoying themselves.

Instantly I felt that I wasn’t supposed to be here. I could see the entrance and everything in me said don’t go in that way. I walked past the servants entrance  back stage, and I almost walked in that way. Because thats where I should be. Thats where i belong. I am not a front door walker. I should go in the back because I don’t belong. They belong. I don’t. 

And I thought of Cinderella. Because I love her story. She did it. She went into the place that she wasn’t invited to go to. There would be important beautiful people at the Prince’s ball. But she went. She dressed up and owned the real her. The her that people didn’t know. And she was noticed. And she was lovely.

But she had to walk through the front door. and the first step is always the hardest.

So I walked through the door. And I didn’t know anyone. But the room seemed to stop. There was no music that swelled, or spotlight that hit; but I went. And for one evening, I faked it. I didn’t feel like I felt in, but I got to pretend that I fit in that world.

And even though I wasn’t sure if I fit in, just being in a ball gala was enough to make me feel like a princess for an evening.

Even if I didnt meet a prince, the fact that my flesh is telling me that I am not good enough to walk through the front door of a ball should show that I am.

The world is going to remind you of where you are instead of letting you know whos you are.

I serve a God who created me to walk through front doors. My father is a king. How can I not feel comfortable walking into a ball? When I was adopted by the king, I became a princess.

 And a princess doesn't walk through the back door.

I was allowing my flesh to dictate my decisions instead of letting the Holy Spirit be in charge.

So often we think of Cinderella as running away from the prince. But can we just for a moment recognize the boldness she had in going to the ball. Alone. Because now I understand how hard it is. And I wonder, if after years of being a servant, then marrying the prince; if she ever felt like going through the servants entrance when she was created to walk through the front door.

I just wonder when that transition happens. From servant to Princess. And what that will look like in my own life.

This is my cinderella complex. And I’m figuring it out.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s