When I was in high school, an old family friend made me a giant version of this particular tarot card, but she replaced the face on it with my face, because I spent my entire childhood saying, “I’m not a princess, I’m an empress!” and she said that I hadn’t changed a bit, and that she loved me for it. 

I don’t feel like this anymore, but I have that art piece on my wall, and looking at it reminds me that, theoretically, there’s still an empress in there, a woman who doesn’t need to be rescued, who can’t be sweet-talked, who doesn’t change for anyone but herself. I just need to remember how to slip her back on over my skin.