When Elsa Becomes the Ideal: A Mother’s Reflection on Representation and Love

A retired teacher, now turned content creator, recently came online and shared something that struck a chord with me. Her young, dark-skinned daughter had chosen Elsa from Frozen as the featured princess for her upcoming birthday celebration. Despite being raised with a range of books and media filled with characters that look like her, reflect her heritage, and celebrate Black beauty, she still gravitated toward the popular white princess.

The mother admitted she was disappointed. Not because she does not love her child’s joy, but because she had hoped that this intentional exposure to Black representation would inspire different choices.

Predictably, the online response was swift. People said things like, “She is just a child,” and “It does not matter.” Others insisted, “Stop racialising everything.” But these reactions miss the depth of the issue.

In a country like Britain, which remains majority white despite the ongoing rhetoric about immigration, the cultural default is still overwhelmingly white. White faces dominate the screens, the storybooks, the adverts, the dolls, the fairy tales. Those characters become the ones most celebrated, most admired, and most replicated in children’s imaginations.

So when a Black parent consciously curates a world filled with reflections of their child’s own beauty, only to see them still reach for the mainstream, it is not about disappointment in the child's choices. It is a recognition of how powerful societal messages can be, even in early childhood.

What this got me thinking about, however, is how one-dimensional this conversation actually is and has been for a long time. Yes, many of us know women who grew up wanting straight, flowy hair like their white peers, rejecting braids or curls because they drew attention to difference.I follow a popular mixed-race influencer by the name of Emily Ann Willcox, who has spoken candidly about her childhood longing to fit in with her white peers and family members by erasing visible signs of her Black identity. We know these stories. We’ve heard them countless times over. And as important as it is to share and unpack these truths, what’s missing is equally important. We rarely extend this conversation to boys. What happens when a Black boy grows up in a society where whiteness is the dominant image of beauty, success, and desirability? How does that shape his self-perception? And also, how does it shape his views of Black girls and women?

I have spoken to many Black mothers who quietly hope their sons will choose Black partners, not out of narrowness, but because in that choice lies a form of self-love and cultural affirmation. In a world that constantly centres whiteness, choosing Black love becomes a quiet act of resistance and self-acceptance. Of course, society often dismisses this desire. We are told “love is love,” that attraction is natural and apolitical. But can we truly separate personal preferences from social conditioning when, from childhood, beauty is coded as white, fair, long-haired, and Eurocentric?

My friend’s eight-year-old daughter was recently mocked by her white classmate, who called her Afro a sponge and asked why her hair did not flow down like the others. These microaggressions may seem innocuous, but they send clear messages. You are different. You are less than. Your features do not fit the ideal.

And while we often focus on how such comments harm Black girls, we overlook the effects they have on Black boys — and all the ways they shape how Black boys see their female counterparts. If the classroom, the playground, and the media consistently reinforce white features as the standard, what does that do to the subconscious preferences they develop as they grow into men?

Yes, most Black men still choose Black women to date and marry. But the visible minority who do not, particularly among the famous and successful, are often the ones placed on pedestals in public life. Their choices send messages, too. Imagine if most white footballers or media figures exclusively dated Black or Asian women. Society would certainly notice. The silence around the reverse reveals much about whose choices are scrutinised, and whose are normalised and why.

This is not about policing love. It is about understanding the invisible lessons our children absorb long before they start dating. Lessons about beauty, belonging, and worth. When the standard remains white, even the most intentional parenting cannot fully counterbalance the weight of that message.

Another close friend of mine has a son who is young, talented, and already in the limelight as a rising sportsman. He is doing exceptionally well, and naturally, the world has started to open up to him. Recently, his mother shared that his love interest is not Black. For her, this was bittersweet. Like many of us, she had hoped her sons would one day choose partners who reflected their family, who shared their culture, and who could pass on the same values and traditions to the next generation. It is not about exclusion, but about continuity. The comfort of knowing that her future grandchildren would grow up rooted in the same cultural soil and hold her family's likeness.

When she asked her son about his choices, he responded by saying something I've heard many times over in varying ways: “Black girls my age are so shallow. It is hard to find one who is on my wavelength.”

A sweeping statement and a familiar one. It was interesting to hear how quickly, upon attaining a measure of success and visibility, some Black men begin to frame their preferences in ways that distance them from Black women. Suddenly, we hear narratives of lack. That Black women are too loud, too strong, too opinionated, too difficult, too shallow. While women of other races are framed as softer, more supportive, and more compatible.

But these are not objective truths. They are reflections of a society that has, for centuries, misrepresented and maligned Black womanhood. I also find it interesting that these other women seem so conveniently positioned at the crossroads of a Black man’s success. In universities, sports clubs, and elite social circles, spaces where systemic barriers often mean fewer Black women are represented. It becomes a cycle. Success leads to new environments. Those environments shape exposure, and exposure shapes desire.

So we, as parents, raising the next generation of black children, must ask ourselves: how do we nurture self-love deep enough that it extends to others who look like us? How do we raise Black boys to see Black girls as beautiful, worthy, and enough? Because both Black boys and girls are targeted, through media, through education, and through subtle daily messages, to aspire to proximity to whiteness. It is sold as a kind of transcendence, a way to escape the burden of Blackness. But it is a false promise.

That is why I believe so strongly in exposure—repeated, intentional, affirming exposure, not only to positive Black images in media, but to community, culture, and heritage. For me, that means taking my son back home. Not necessarily to force an outcome, but to ensure he grows with a deep sense of identity. I want him to understand who he is and what that means in a world that often misrepresents him and women who share his complexion. Then, when he makes choices, whether about love, life, or belonging, they will come from a place of wholeness, not from a subconscious need to conform or escape.

Because the truth is, this society has a long history of tarnishing both the image of the Black man and the Black woman, painting us as opposites when in fact we are mirrors. And it is only when our sons and daughters recognise the beauty in that reflection that real healing, real love, can begin.

So when a little Black girl chooses Elsa for her birthday, it is not just a phase. It is a window into a world that still tells her, subtly and consistently, that the fair-haired princess is the one worth pursuing— the one society quietly places on a pedestal.