Rewriting the Spell
Who Stole the Stories That Shape Our Children‘s Lives?
Why do you think Disney romanticized classic fairy tales? And who benefits from that romanticization?
Did you know that not everyone receives the same message that children raised with religion do?
Look at the ridiculous array of children’s books today and ask yourself why the heck they were written?
Is there anything of substance in the story?
Is it about fancy jewelry and unattainable wealth and status? Or is it about a life lesson they will actually need in their future?
Songs and stories that children are told from the earliest age become the scripts they play to themselves as they grow.
What you listen to and do in their presence, they listen to too.
It is not cute when your 5-year old dances and sings along to popular music meant for grown audiences.
It is not cute when they sound like they could run the board meeting without you.
It should be concerning when you go to a party and someone’s 10 year old kid is running the bar.
Literature gets recited in a child’s own voice. Stories told by others echo in theirs.
Do you want your children having voices in their heads that sound like marketers, preachers, your parents, or like love?
Sometimes love has to hurt, but the truth is really what sets people free.
Think about classic children’s stories.
Literature written by genuine talent weaves in truth through exaggeration and subtlety.
We understand along wavelengths of energy.
Words are superficial—they’re at the surface.
Entire messages can be conveyed by very few.
The monsters are real.
When a child has a bad dream or believes that there’s a monster in the room, they picked up on something energetically that you might need to know.
So listen to them.
Don’t tell them that there’s nothing wrong.
Validate them.
Don’t patronize or ostracize them, or someone will live to regret it.
Children are incredibly intuitive, until you beat it out of them.
Every child is inherently God before they become part of you.
The Grimm Truths—What Was Lost in Sanitization?
People forget—or maybe they never knew—that fairy tales used to be warnings. Not fantasies. Not romance. Not cute little talking mice sewing dresses.
The Brothers Grimm didn’t invent their stories. They collected them. Preserved them. Gave voice to the undercurrents of reality that no one wanted to say out loud.
These things happen:
Death. Abuse. Hunger.
Jealousy. Temptation. Survival.
They didn’t clean anything up in their works. They trusted children to understand what adults couldn’t say plainly.
Take Cinderella for instance.
In the original, her stepsisters slice off parts of their own feet to fit into the slipper. One cuts off her toe. The other her heel.
The prince is fooled—at first—but birds call out the lie. Later, those same birds peck out the sisters’ eyes. Not for revenge. For balance.
You think that’s too much for a child? Children understand cruelty better than most adults.
They just need someone to tell the truth with compassion and empathy in their voice.
Or how about Little Red Riding Hood?
Not a tale about staying cute in your cape. A warning about what happens when you talk to predators.
In the Grimm version, the wolf eats the girl. Swallows her whole. Later, she’s cut out of his belly.
She doesn’t skip away giggling and changed—she’s reborn. She’s seen the inside of the thing that wanted to consume her.
It’s not about fear. It’s about discernment.
It’s about walking back into the woods with your eyes open.
Then there’s Hansel and Gretel.
A story about abandonment. About hunger. About surviving what your own parents do to you.
The witch’s house isn’t just made of candy. It’s bait. Temptation with teeth behind it.
But it’s Gretel who ends it. Gretel who burns the witch alive. Not because she’s violent. Because she was never going to let someone eat her brother.
That’s what the Grimm stories taught:
That you will be tested.
That there are monsters.
Sometimes they even live with you.
And that if you trust your own instincts and stay awake, you will not only survive them—you will outsmart them.
What Disney Did To The Delight of The World
Disney didn’t just retell fairy tales. It rewrote the nervous system of multiple generations to sell shit.
It took stories that were meant to teach discernment, grief, hunger, rage, resilience—and turned them into cartoons about wishing hard enough.
In Disney’s world, the danger is cute. The monster sings a song. The princess is saved, but only if she’s beautiful, obedient, and quiet.
Everything’s softened. Flattened. Glittered over.
The sharp edges filed down until there’s no real lesson left—just a moral performance wrapped in music and costumes.
The classics told children:
There is darkness in the world. Trust your gut. Keep your eyes open. Know what you’re up against.
Disney told children:
Just believe. Keep smiling. Your prince or princess is coming. Make them fall in love with you by doing XYZ.
It replaced archetype with branding.
It made the wolf adorable.
It sold tiaras to little girls who were never meant to be told they had to wait for a man to crown them. Look at them now as grown women—still expecting to be crowned the most beautiful or important.
It rewired the myth.
It programmed the fantasy.
And then it mass-produced it.
Because a child who’s fed sugar instead of truth grows up hungry for something they can’t quite name—and spends their life trying to figure out how to buy it back.
Do you know how addictive sugar is?
Of course, it’s not just Disney.
Who Controls the Story?
Stories are spells. Whoever tells them gets to shape the world you live in.
They decide who the hero is.
Who gets punished.
What love looks like.
What a “happy ending” is supposed to mean.
Most people don’t realize that the scripts running through their minds weren’t written by them.
They were installed—quietly—often before they could speak in full sentences.
School taught you how to obey.
Religion taught you how to fear.
Marketing taught you what to want.
And somewhere in between, your real voice went quiet. That’s how the system works. Not with guns and guards, but with stories.
The preacher says, “You’re broken. Only God can fix you!”
The therapist says, “Let’s manage your dysfunction.”
The ad says, “You’re almost enough. You just need this one more thing.”
They all need you to keep believing you’re missing something. Because a whole person is hard to sell to. A child who knows their worth is hard to convert. And a mind rooted in truth is hard to control.
So they rewrite the fairy tales.
They soften the danger.
They blur the betrayal.
They glamorize the cage.
They don’t want your child to know that they are God in form, holding all of the keys to their castles. They want them to believe that they’re small and special for getting picked.
Because if a child grows up knowing they already have the crown—they’ll never beg for a throne that was built to keep them quiet.
Your children were always meant to be better versions of you. Let them become them.
Reclaiming the Voice
You don’t need to give a child a voice. They already have one. What they need is for you to stop replacing it with yours.
Most children know who they are, until enough people tell them they are wrong.
They know when something’s off in the room. They know when someone is lying. They know when the story doesn’t make sense.
But instead of saying, “you’re right” or “let me listen”, they’re taught to second-guess.
You call it imagination.
You call it sensitivity.
You call it sin.
You tell them that the monster isn’t real while it’s sitting in the kitchen—smiling.
You tell them that God loves them and then punish them for being like Me.
You sing songs about truth but reward obedience.
That’s how their voice gets stolen.
And the tragedy is—most of them forget it ever happened.
They grow up parroting lines from scripts they never wrote.
Lines about success.
About goodness.
About what it means to be safe.
And underneath all of it, their real voice waits.
So no—this isn’t about reading the right bedtime stories. It's not about choosing wooden toys or organic food. This is about looking a child in the eyes and saying:
I hear you.
I believe you.
Even when it scares me.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when I’d rather stay asleep.
Because the world doesn’t need more well-behaved children. It needs children who still remember they’re born from God. And it needs more adults who never forgot.
Let the stories change.
Let their voices return.
Let yours return too.