Before You Judge an Icy Queen

I find it interesting that the audience universally loves some characters, yet they don’t receive the same sort of love within their own stories. We relate to their pain, principles, and history because we see the whole picture from a distance. But would they get the same reaction if we met them in real life?

Apologies to all non-believers — you will probably not open an article about a Disney princess anyway. This monthly challenge presented a perfect opportunity that I could not resist. The character I see myself in is the Frosty Queen Elsa. So what connects her and me, despite the striking urge to run to the mountains and dig myself into the snow whenever it hits 30°C? Give me an ice castle beyond human reach, and I would happily leave my rainy Arendelle forever.

"Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know" or "Don't let them in, don't let them see. Be the good girl you always have to be." Those phrases could come straight from a popular book of protective parenting advice that too many of us can relate to. Only now do we know that by saying those words, you protect no one but yourself, raising a seemingly perfect child and, later, a lost adult who only knows conditional love. Because that's the price you pay for suppressing your true self, just so others feel safe around you.

As a child, Elsa was taught to hide her powers because people fear unfamiliarity. Let me remind you that only 300 years ago you could have been burned at the stake for any suspected connection to witchcraft (or simply for annoying your neighbour) in our earthly world, not Disney's. No matter what wonders Elsa can do with her magic, she would always be feared and rarely understood. And not only did her parents make her doubt herself, they also took away the only person whose love was truly unconditional — her little sister Anna. Yet the contradiction is that an emotionally mutilated Frankenstein running on pure anxiety is no more appealing to people than your true, whatever-is-wrong-with-you self.

I've read some theories (from other people who also take Disney stories too seriously) about what Elsa's powers represent: disability, neurodiversity, trauma, or an anxiety disorder. For me, she is simply different, and society rarely forgives you for that.

We will skip the part about what sorts of demons got into my head growing up (only God and certified professionals can answer that). But anyone involved in creative endeavours stepped onto that path for a reason. Too sensitive, too dramatic, too honest, too opinionated, too imaginative, too introverted, and a little explosive at the same time. None of this sounds particularly deal-breaking, yet being "bubbly" is often a currency for fitting in, and being extroverted even appears in job descriptions.

Since Elsa is not allowed to be herself, there's always a sense that her place in society depends partly on what she can do for others. She constantly thinks about consequences, puts others first, sacrifices her own happiness, and tries to act according to what she believes is right. She is the Cold Queen—layered and complex; not everyone can endure contact. She is protective and introspective; not everyone can reciprocate.

I recently read that being understood is the worst kind of begging. We shrink parts of ourselves to stay accepted, calm things down, avoid attention, conflict or rejection. We justify our existence through control and usefulness. The idea of just being becomes so central in this children's story. But no matter how many times you listen to Let It Go, it is hard to unlearn managing your natural intensity by becoming "the strong one," "the composed one," or "the distant one."

So the next time you meet an "icy queen," don't rush to complete the story you think you already know. Have some trust. The real question is whether you are willing to stay long enough to stop turning complexity into a verdict.