The Dragon and the Mirror

We've probably all seen that quote attributed to G.K. Chesterton floating around social media about dragons and fairy tales. But what Chesterton actually wrote in his 1909 work Tremendous Trifles was: 

"Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon." GK Chesterton

This original formulation—less pithy but more nuanced—cuts deeper than inspirational poster fodder. It speaks to something fundamental: children don't need to be told about the existence of darkness, fear or struggle. They've intuited these realities already. What they need—what we all need—is the conviction that these forces aren't invincible.

What if those dragons aren't just metaphors for external challenges but represent something more intimate – the monsters of inauthenticity that breathe fire through our carefully constructed personas? What if the real dragons we face aren't out there in the world, but inside us – the fears, expectations and societal pressures that keep us performing rather than being?

Today, as we navigate a landscape where ‘authentic’ has become another performance metric, another line on the CV of acceptable personhood, Chesterton's observation bears re-examination. What do our modern fairy tales – whether literal, digital, or psychological – teach us about facing our monsters and living truthfully?

The Dragons We Already Know

We don't need to be told dragons exist because we're born with an innate sense of them. From our earliest moments, we begin to face the uncomfortable reality that our genuine selves might not be acceptable to others. The child who learns to stifle their emotions to please a parent. The teenager who adopts an identity to fit in. The adult who nods along in meetings while their soul withers.

Psychologist Donald Winnicott developed the concept of the ‘false self’ – a protective façade that emerges when our true needs and expressions aren't sufficiently mirrored or validated. In his work, he described how this false self serves as a kind of social interface, protecting the vulnerable true self from harm, but potentially leading to a sense of inauthenticity or emptiness when it dominates.

This isn't some arcane psychological concept – it's the lived experience of most of us. We're conditioned early to understand that certain parts of ourselves are unwelcome, that authenticity comes with risks. By adulthood, many of us have internalised dragons of conformity so completely that we no longer recognise them as external forces – they've become the voice in our own heads.

Even our childhood stories reinforce this understanding. The ugly duckling who's rejected for being different. Cinderella hiding her true circumstances. The little mermaid sacrificing her voice for acceptance. These tales don't introduce children to rejection and the pain of inauthenticity – they validate what children have already observed in their social worlds.

Carl Jung wrote in Psychology and Religion: 

"Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is." Carl Jung

Our dragons – these aspects of ourselves we've learned to hide, repress or deny – don't vanish because we refuse to acknowledge them. They grow stronger in the darkness of denial.

The dragons are real. But can they truly be slain?

The Cultural Fairytale of Authenticity

Perhaps the cruelest trick of modern life is how authenticity itself has been commodified, packaged and sold back to us as yet another aspiration we're failing to achieve.

"Just be yourself" has become the mantra of an age that simultaneously punishes those who take the advice too literally. We've created a bizarre paradox – authenticity is now performance art. We follow Instagram accounts of influencers who preach "keeping it real" while using ten filters and crafting captions designed to appear effortlessly genuine.

In the corporate world, ‘authentic leadership’ has become a buzzword – be vulnerable, but not too vulnerable. Share personal stories, but only the ones with acceptable narrative arcs. Be human, but the right kind of human. Take calculated risks with your authenticity that never actually risk anything.

Brené Brown, whose research focuses on vulnerability and authenticity, writes in The Gifts of Imperfection: 

"Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we are." Brene Brown

Yet even this wisdom has been paradoxically commodified into another aspirational brand.

We've turned authenticity into another product to consume. The curated mess of the ‘authentic’ home interior. The carefully casual "I woke up like this" aesthetic. The confessional social media post that's been drafted and redrafted for maximum engagement.

This is a new fairy tale, but a false one. In this story, the dragon isn't slain – it's rebranded, monetised and featured in a sponsored post. "Look at my dragon! Isn't it terrifying? Use my code for 10% off dragon-slaying equipment!"

True authenticity – messy, inconsistent, sometimes boring, occasionally offensive – doesn't fit neatly into a content strategy. And therein lies the trap: when being authentic becomes another form of performance, we've simply created a more sophisticated dragon.

The True Tale: Slaying the Dragon of Performance

Real authenticity isn't picture-perfect. It's not always Instagrammable. It doesn't consistently present well in meetings or make people comfortable at dinner parties.

Philosopher Charles Taylor explores the distinction between true authenticity and narcissistic self-fulfilment. He argues that genuine authenticity involves engaging with "horizons of significance" beyond ourselves – the meaningful frameworks against which we define our identities. Authentic living isn't just following impulses but thoughtfully integrating broader values and contexts that give life meaning.

In other words, slaying the dragon of performance doesn't mean abandoning all social norms or responsibilities. It means integrating them honestly, weighing them against your core values and making conscious choices rather than sleepwalking through scripted responses.

It made me think about Marcus Rashford, the footballer who transcended the usual boundaries of his profession to campaign against child food poverty. Before his difficulties at Manchester United and subsequent surprise loan move to Aston Villa, he became somewhat of a cultural icon. Despite pressure to "stick to football," he chose to advocate for an issue he personally related to from his own childhood experiences. His authenticity didn't come from rejecting his public role but from integrating his personal values into it, regardless of potential backlash. And it definitely cost him.

Or take Greta Thunberg, whose blunt communication style breaks social norms but stems from a place of genuine conviction (and neurodiversity of course). Her infamous "How dare you" speech to world leaders wasn't calculated for viral spread – it was a genuine expression of her perspective, unfiltered by the usual political niceties. Whether you agree with her positions or not, her authenticity is undeniable and powerful, precisely because it doesn't perform according to expected scripts.

Even in ordinary life, slaying the dragon of performance means accepting the messiness of your contradictions. It means acknowledging that you can be both the person who donates to charity and the one who sometimes indulges in petty gossip. It means owning your failures as much as your successes. It means allowing yourself to change your mind without worrying about appearing inconsistent.

Søren Kierkegaard wrote in his journal: 

"The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do; the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die." Søren Kierkegaard

This captures the essence of authentic living – not as performance for others, but as a committed engagement with one's own path.

This is the true hero's journey – not eliminating the dragon, but facing it honestly, naming it, and choosing to move forward authentically despite its frightening presence.

Fairy Tales as Psychological Blueprints

Fairy tales endure precisely because they offer psychological blueprints for navigating the complexities of being human. They aren't just stories about dragons and witches – they're symbolic representations of our internal struggles.

Take "Beauty and the Beast" – beyond the Disney romance, this is a tale about seeing past appearances (both others' and our own). Beauty must learn to look beyond the Beast's frightening exterior to recognise his humanity, as well as  overcome her own preconceptions and fears. The transformation at the end isn't just magical – it's psychological. The Beast was always a prince, once Beauty could truly see him.

Or consider "The Emperor's New Clothes." This isn't just about a foolish ruler – it's about the social conspiracy of silence we all participate in, and the courage required to speak truth when everyone else is performing agreement. The child who points out the emperor's nakedness is the ultimate authentic voice – unbound by social pressure, speaking simple truth regardless of consequence. If it were a ‘true’ story (what do we even mean by true in this sense?), it would likely have cost the child.

"The Ugly Duckling" speaks directly to the experience of feeling fundamentally wrong or different. Its power comes from validating that this feeling is real (the dragons exist!) while offering hope that authenticity – being truly who you are rather than trying to be an adequate version of something you're not – leads to belonging and recognition.

These tales offer more than escapism. They provide rehearsal spaces for courage and frameworks for understanding our struggles. As psychologist Bruno Bettelheim wrote,

"Fairy tales address themselves to the child's sense of heroism. The fairy tale hero achieves his identity, his true selfhood, by successfully undergoing hazards and adventures. He discovers his inner strength and makes his place in the world." Bruno Bettelheim

The fairy tale tradition doesn't deny the existence of dragons. It acknowledges them as real, terrifying and powerful. But crucially, it insists that facing them – while difficult and sometimes costly – is possible, necessary and ultimately rewarding. The hero rarely escapes unscathed, but they emerge transformed.

Authenticity as Heroism

If Chesterton is right, then living authentically in a world of performance isn't just a personal preference – it's an act of heroism. It's dragon-slaying.

This kind of heroism isn't about the absence of fear but about acting despite it. As philosopher Paul Tillich wrote,

"The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself as accepted in spite of being unacceptable." Paul Tillich

This perfectly captures the heroic nature of authenticity – the willingness to stand revealed, flaws and all, despite the risk of rejection.

Authentic people often face resistance precisely because they disrupt comfortable illusions. They're the colleague who asks uncomfortable questions in meetings, the friend who gently points out when you're not being true to yourself, the public figure who refuses to stick to safe talking points. They break the spell of collective performance, and that can be threatening to those invested in maintaining it. It is the ‘radical cando(u)r’ that Kim Scott espouses.

When we dare to express our authentic experiences – including our doubts, struggles, and failures – we often find others responding with recognition and relief. By slaying our own dragons of pretence, we give others permission to confront theirs. Just like that Marianne Williamson poem I reference so much!

Of course, not everyone has equal freedom to be authentic in all contexts. People facing discrimination or precarious circumstances often must make calculated decisions about how much authenticity is safe to express. But even small acts of truthfulness can be powerful. As Hannah Arendt wrote in the preface to Men in Dark Times: 

"Even in the darkest of times we have the right to expect some illumination." Hannah Arendt

Perhaps that's why we continue to tell fairy tales – not just to children but to ourselves. They remind us that the dragon-slaying journey, while difficult, is possible. That authenticity, while risky, is worth fighting for.

Telling Better Tales

Our culture desperately needs better stories about authenticity – ones that don't promise effortless transformation or Instagram-friendly vulnerability but acknowledge the daily struggle and small victories of living truthfully.

We need fairy tales that admit dragons are terrifying and powerful. Tales that acknowledge the real costs of confronting them – the relationships that change, the discomfort of growth, the vulnerability of standing revealed. Tales that don't promise a happy-ever-after but rather a life more deeply and honestly lived.

Perhaps our job isn't just to consume these stories but to create them – for ourselves and each other. To become, in our ordinary lives, examples of the courage Chesterton described. To demonstrate that while dragons are indeed real, they aren't invincible.

This might mean speaking up when it would be easier to stay silent. It might mean admitting you don't know something everyone else seems to understand. It might mean acknowledging a mistake rather than maintaining a facade of perfection. It might mean pursuing work that matters to you even when others don't understand.

Each of these moments, however small, is dragon-slaying.

"The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice, it is conformity." Rollo May

In a world obsessed with performance, the true heroes are those who dare to be real – messy, complex, inconsistent, genuine.

So perhaps the question isn't whether you believe in dragons. We all know they exist – the fear of rejection, the pressure to conform, the voice that says your authentic self isn't good enough. The real question is whether you believe these dragons can be defeated, one authentic choice at a time.

What dragons are you still pretending don't exist – and what might become possible if you believed they could be slain?

Key Takeaways

1. Recognise your dragons: Authenticity begins with honest acknowledgment of the fears, pressures and expectations that keep you performing rather than being.
   
   
2. Beware authenticity as performance: True authenticity can't be packaged, filtered or optimised – be suspicious of any version of ‘being real’ that feels like another kind of performance.
   
   
3. Start with small acts of truth: Authenticity doesn't require grand gestures. Begin with small moments of honesty about what you think, feel and value.
   
   
4. Accept the messiness: Authentic living embraces contradictions and imperfections rather than presenting a consistent, curated self.
   
   
5. Find your authentic community: Surround yourself with people who value your true self over your performance – they make dragon-slaying possible.
   
   
6. Remember authenticity is courage: Choosing to be genuine despite the risks isn't weakness – it's heroism in its most ordinary and powerful form.

Perhaps the greatest irony in our quest for authenticity is that its most profound victories are often silent and unseen. Dragon-slaying in fairy tales is dramatic – all fire and sword and glory. But in real life, authenticity's triumphs are quieter affairs. They happen in the moment you decline to join the chorus of agreement when you genuinely disagree. In the unphotographed kindness you show without social media fanfare. In the career path you choose because it matters to you, not because it impresses others. In the relationship where you're fully known, not merely admired. 

These moments won't make headlines or gather likes. They may not even be recognised by those around you. But they are the real magic – the alchemy that transforms a life of performance into one of meaning. In slaying the dragon of pretence, we don't become perfect. We become something far more valuable: ourselves. And like the heroes of our childhood tales, we discover that the journey itself being messy, difficult and authentic is the true happily ever after.