Redefining ‘princess treatment’ in my marriage
The care between my husband and me doesn’t move in only one direction
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When I was 3 years old, I joined a television pageant for little girls called “Princess Asia.” I won the top prize.
But when I look back on that moment now, the crown itself feels almost incidental. What stands out more is that I caught amebiasis, an intestinal infection, just before the grand finals and was given the option to withdraw, but I chose to continue.
In the footage, I’m standing onstage without much of a smile, clearly unwell, doing my best to go through the motions. Even then, quitting wasn’t instinctive to me.
Decades later, I find myself reflecting on the word “princess” again — not because of nostalgia, but because of how often it shows up in our current cultural vocabulary. “Passenger princess.” “Princess treatment.” It’s the idea of being cared for, chauffeured, indulged.
I don’t seem to fit neatly into those definitions.
Care has weight, and I’ve learned to carry it
I’ve been married for six years, and I am our family’s designated driver. My husband lives with hemophilia B and epilepsy, so the chauffeuring falls to me. Being a “passenger princess” was never on the table — not because I rejected it, but because illness quietly sets its own terms.
When he feels something is “off” in a joint or muscle, I stay alert alongside him in case he needs to infuse. If he’s healing from a debilitating bleed, I take on many of the responsibilities at home, including some tasks he would normally handle — like getting our daughter ready for school.
It doesn’t look like the kind of life social media calls “princess treatment.” It looks like paying attention. It looks like shared responsibility. It looks like adaptation.
And yet, I’d be lying if I claimed I never want to be treated like a princess.
There are mornings when I wish coffee would simply appear beside me when I wake up. And often, it does. Despite living within the limits of hemophilia and seizures, my husband makes a point to do that for me.
The care between us doesn’t move in only one direction. Outsiders don’t always understand that, but we’ve learned we don’t owe constant explanations.
Strength, illness, and taking up space
I’m comfortable being seen as the strong one. I go to the gym regularly and delight in my muscles growing larger, even though I’m still getting used to taking up more physical space. Strength has become something I inhabit, not something I perform.
And yet, when I look at how women are represented — especially in media — I notice how insistently we’re encouraged to stay small. Small bodies, small needs, small ambitions, small lives.
Living alongside chronic illness has taught me that care has weight, and that carrying it doesn’t make me less feminine, less worthy, or less deserving of tenderness. It has taught me that strength doesn’t cancel softness, and that receiving care doesn’t require surrendering agency.
I wore a crown once. I don’t need one now. Dignity doesn’t come from being protected from hardship. It comes from choice, and from deciding how much space you allow yourself to take up while carrying what you must.
Note: Hemophilia News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult your physician or another qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Hemophilia News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to hemophilia.
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