I grew up believing my family was descended from royalty. Not just any royalty, but African kings and queens so illustrious that even Wakanda would’ve been sending us emissaries. My grandmother swore up and down that her great-great-grandmother was snatched from Ghanaian nobility, forced to leave behind riches and titles that would make us the rightful heirs to untold glory. By the time I was 10, I had convinced myself a crown was practically my birthright and that I could maybe get away with wearing one to church.

Of course, as you grow older, certain stories stop holding up under scrutiny. My first chink of doubt came one Thanksgiving, when my cousin Gerald (you know the type—always got a new conspiracy theory) casually mentioned that DNA testing doesn’t "mesh well with Ghanaian royalty." This wasn’t a direct claim, mind you, but it planted a question: if we were so royal, why did none of our family photos feature lavish gold thrones? And why did Paw Paw Ernest joke that we were "the kings of overtime shifts"? Something wasn’t adding up.

So today, let me unpack this “family myth” I inherited, how it shaped my view of love, identity, and connection—because I might not have a crown on my head, but I’ve learned some things worth sharing.

The Allure of Stories We Want to Believe

Let’s not lie to ourselves: there’s something seductive about family stories. They’re like those rom-com montages where everyone has perfect lighting, and the banter flows effortlessly. When you grow up finding out that maybe your ancestors were African royalty, it ties your present to a glorious past. It romanticizes a narrative where your lineage is filled with wisdom, beauty, and gravitas. In my case, it wasn’t just about the history; it was about being more. Special. Chosen.

But leaning into those kinds of myths can be a double-edged sword. It’s like seeing your partner as “the one” based on three good dates and a shared love for crab cakes—idealism blinds you just enough to stop asking important questions. I spent years holding on to this idea of being inherently exceptional, and when life presented more mundane truths (like the reality of unpaid student loans or awkward first-date silences), it was harder to reconcile.

Why We Cling to Myths in Love and Life

For many of us, family myths spill over into our relationships. Everyone knows someone (you might be them) who inherited beliefs like, “Real men never cry,” or “True love should be effortless.” In my world, the myth was that because we descended from regal stock, our idea of love was sacred—noble partners who’d sweep you off your feet and treat you with queenly devotion.

Spoiler alert: love doesn’t work that way. I remember dating a man in college who leaned into this narrative. He knew about my family’s alleged royal origins, and let me tell you, he milked that idea. “You deserve someone to worship you,” he’d say, subsequently buying me overpriced jewelry I explicitly said I didn’t like. This wasn’t love—it was an obligation to live up to the myth, not the reality of who I was. And the jewelry? Pawned it to help with rent.

Here’s the thing: whether in family stories or relationships, myths set us up for disappointment. They oversell the fantasy while papering over all the mess that makes people human. Real love—and real family connections—aren’t about perfect backstories or romance straight out of a Destiny’s Child music video. They’re gritty, unpolished, and far more rewarding once we get over ourselves.

Breaking the Cycle of Mythmaking

So how do you shed myths while honoring what they mean to you? It’s not about tearing them down but examining them with humility and curiosity. Let’s break this down, bullet-point style—because nothing says “practical advice” like a list:

  • Ask questions, even if it's awkward: Start with curiosity, not cynicism. When I brought up our royal claims at a family cookout (in between bites of brisket), I learned that Grandma’s stories derived from oral histories about survival, not crowns. She wasn’t talking about royal titles—she was celebrating the lineage that kept our family alive despite unimaginable odds.

  • Redefine the story for yourself: Once I accepted we were more “resilient survivors” than “distant monarchs,” I leaned into what that meant for my identity. I saw my family’s history as a symbol of love, not splendor, which changed my approach to relationships profoundly. Suddenly, I wasn’t looking for a “prince” anymore—I wanted someone who made it through the fire with me.

  • Be willing to laugh about it: Humor is magic, y’all. When you discover most romantic myths are bunk or that your family might not hold the keys to kingdom gates, you gotta admit it’s funny. I now joke with my mom every Christmas that our family jewels are probably some Mardi Gras beads we forgot to return.

What This Means for Your Relationships

Believing myths often leads to idealized projections—and listen, nobody wants to be the projection in someone’s romantic story. Whether it’s expecting unconditional love because your family told you “women do all the emotional labor” or holding out for someone to “complete you” (thanks, 2000s rom-coms), these narratives create pressure for you and your partner. Connection begins where the myth ends, where someone knows all the things that make you complicated and still stays.

For me, ditching the fantasy of an inherited crown allowed me to embrace something better—grounded love. I’ve learned to value people not for how impressive they seem but for how present they are in my life. And guess what? That’s real royalty right there.

Final Thoughts: Take Off the Crown, and Just Be

It took me years to accept that I didn’t need a royal bloodline for my story—or my relationships—to matter. The truth we uncover about our families doesn’t diminish their power; it enhances it. Whether you're unpacking tales of nobility or just realizing that maybe love isn’t about grand sweeping gestures, remember this: being human, flawed, and absolutely ordinary is still pretty extraordinary.

So, let’s retire the family myths, the fairy tales, and the unrealistic expectations we’ve been lugging around. You don’t need a scepter to command your life—or your love. Besides, crowns are heavy, and they’ll mess up your edges. Let’s leave them where they belong: in the stories that brought us here, while we write ones that take us further.