Once Upon a Time, There Was a Girl Who Loved Stories
(Happily ’N’ever After – When Sandcastles Fall, Post One)
Once upon a time, there was a little girl with a brilliant imagination. Her childhood days were filled with storybooks, fairy tales, music, and magical pretend worlds. In these worlds, the princess was always rescued, the knight—though wounded—always managed to slay the dragon, and the heroes were always victorious.
Her name was Corey, though in time she would insist on being called by her middle name, Elizabeth. From the start, she lived in stories. She made up songs, spun tales, and cast herself as both the director and the star of every production. Her “crew” included her sometimes-reluctant older sister (whom she adored, but also loved to boss around), her dogs, and her dolls.
Wardrobe was essential. Corey adorned her cast with scarves, hats, capes fashioned from towels or bedsheets, gloves, shoes, and whatever accessories could be found. Tickets and programs were often required—sometimes even sold—to parents, friends, and family. She was not only the playwright and star, but also the stage manager, wardrobe mistress, and budding entrepreneur. When the curtain lifted (even if it was only a blanket draped across a doorway), Corey led the show with such energy and joy that she even cued the audience when it was time to laugh, clap, or demand an encore.
Every story needed costumes—and no cast member was exempt
Balancing all of this creativity was her radiant smile and contagious laughter. Corey was silly, carefree, and always ready to spark more giggles. Yet beneath her playful spirit was an old soul. She carried an uncanny awareness of the emotions of others. When friends at school were sad or quarreling, Corey didn’t just notice—she absorbed it. Many times, her compassion was so deep she felt it in her own body, coming home with stomach aches until the storm passed.
Her gift of empathy reached beyond her peers. With hurting adults, Corey instinctively offered love, laughter, and presence. We spent much of her childhood visiting the homebound and elderly, and she often looked forward to these visits with a seriousness beyond her years.
She didn’t just create stories—she lived them, always ready for the spotlight.
One day, on our rounds, we stopped for milkshakes—one for each of the girls, and one extra to share with a friend in a nursing home. When we arrived, we found our friend in therapy, alongside another woman who looked especially downcast. Without hesitation, Corey walked up to the stranger and placed the milkshake in her hands. No one told her to. That was just who she was—an old soul in a little body who saw pain and met it with joy. The woman’s smile lit the room, and I silently fought back tears of pride.
Later, I bought Corey the biggest milkshake our local drive-thru offered, but I’m not sure she enjoyed it as much as she enjoyed that simple act of giving. For Corey, the real treat had already been served—the joy of bringing a stranger happiness.
Even as she grew, her compassion and old soul nature shone brightest when she was lifting others
Corey loved happy endings. When one wasn’t obvious, she created it. She looked for them, expected them, and lived as though “happily ever after” was always possible.
And that is where her story begins.
Even when castles crumble, your story still stands. Live it bravely, love it deeply.
🏰💙 Jen