I remember once giving my eldest daughter two different

Host: The garden was a riot of color — balloons tangled in branches, paper streamers fluttering lazily in the summer heat, the faint smell of strawberry cake and sunscreen hanging in the air. Children’s laughter rose and fell like music, chasing the hum of bees and the chatter of grown-ups clustered near the picnic tables.

It was one of those June afternoons that felt like it could last forever, golden and sticky, the kind that lived on in memory as a single bright blur of sun and joy.

Jack sat in the shade beneath a sycamore tree, nursing a glass of lemonade and watching as a small girl in a padded Batman costume sprinted past, her cape flapping like a defiant flag. Jeeny was beside him, cross-legged on the grass, camera slung around her neck, grinning as the little caped hero darted toward the other children — a sea of pastel princess dresses shimmering in the heat.

Jeeny: laughing softly “Cathy Newman once said, ‘I remember once giving my eldest daughter two different dressing-up outfits for her birthday — a princess dress and a Batman trouser suit. For her party, she got to choose which to wear. And although it was a sweltering hot June day she went for the padded Batman number — while all her friends turned up in full princess regalia.’”
She tilted her head. “That’s independence right there — in its purest, sweetest form.”

Jack: smirking “Or stubbornness. You ever try reasoning with a six-year-old in a heatwave?”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing though — she didn’t care about comfort or conformity. She cared about being herself. And that’s more heroic than any cape.”

Host: The light shimmered through the leaves, scattering gold across their faces. The sound of a balloon popping made the group of children shriek — half in fright, half in laughter.

Jack watched the Batman girl spin in circles, cape flaring, utterly oblivious to anything but joy. “You know,” he said quietly, “we spend our whole adult lives trying to find the courage to do what she’s doing right now — choosing what feels true over what looks right.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we learn early that approval feels safer than authenticity.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. Somewhere between childhood and deadlines, we stop dressing for ourselves.”

Host: The girl ran up to them then — cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat, her little mask pushed askew. She struck a pose — fists on hips, chin high. “Batman never quits,” she declared solemnly before running off again.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes following her. “See that? That’s what self-definition looks like before the world interferes.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher with a juice box.”

Jeeny: laughing “Maybe I am. But think about it — Cathy Newman wasn’t just telling a cute story. She was saying something about choice. About letting a child decide who they want to be, even if it doesn’t fit anyone else’s script.”

Host: A gust of warm wind lifted the paper napkins from the table, sending them fluttering like white birds across the yard. The scene was ordinary, but beneath it, something quietly profound — a small act of rebellion disguised as play.

Jack: “You think that kind of freedom lasts?”

Jeeny: “Only if we protect it. The world’s quick to tell girls what they should be — delicate, smiling, adorned. But the real revolution is raising them to choose what they want to be — bold, sweaty, armored, unbothered.”

Jack: “So the Batman suit’s more than a costume.”

Jeeny: “It’s a manifesto.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed, reflecting both sunlight and conviction. Jack chuckled under his breath, leaning back on his hands.

Jack: “You ever wear something like that?”

Jeeny: grinning “I wore a pirate outfit to my cousin’s wedding once.”

Jack: “You serious?”

Jeeny: “Completely. My mom told me to wear something pretty. I told her eye patches were prettier than pearls.”

Jack: laughing “And did you regret it?”

Jeeny: “Not for a second. But I’ve spent years since then learning how to bring that kind of fearlessness back.”

Host: The sound of children filled the air again — laughter echoing across the grass, bubbles catching the light, collapsing midair like tiny suns.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “what I like about that little Batman out there? She’s not performing. She’s not thinking, ‘Look how brave I am.’ She just is. That’s the real power — the kind that doesn’t need validation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Authenticity doesn’t announce itself. It sweats, it laughs, it wears padded suits in the middle of June because it feels right.”

Host: The party music drifted through the air now — something bouncy and carefree. The kids were forming a clumsy circle, dancing. Batman in the middle, twirling her cape with serious delight.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Someday, that girl will look back and think it was just a costume. But right now, it’s her identity — her declaration of selfhood.”

Jack: “And she’s not afraid of standing out.”

Jeeny: “No. Because she hasn’t been taught to shrink yet.”

Host: The sunlight softened, dipping lower now — that hour when everything looks honeyed and holy. Parents started gathering plates, children yawning between laughter. Batman sat down finally, exhausted but triumphant, her mask crooked and her grin wide.

Jeeny watched her quietly. “There’s a metaphor in that, isn’t there?” she said.

Jack: “There always is, with you.”

Jeeny: “No — I mean it. That little girl just lived the lesson we forget: that being true to yourself is always hotter, harder, and heavier — but infinitely more satisfying.”

Jack: “You make rebellion sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is, when it starts with honesty.”

Host: The camera would pan out now — the garden bathed in gold, the caped figure of a child running through the fading light, her laughter echoing like the promise of a future unafraid to choose.

And as the scene faded into twilight, Cathy Newman’s words would linger, half anecdote, half anthem:

“I remember once giving my eldest daughter two different dressing-up outfits for her birthday — a princess dress and a Batman trouser suit... And although it was a sweltering hot June day she went for the padded Batman number — while all her friends turned up in full princess regalia.”

Because freedom begins small —
in a child’s simple act of choice.

To wear what feels right.
To stand apart without apology.

And maybe that’s how courage starts —
not in grand gestures,
but in tiny rebellions
made with sincerity, sweat,
and a cape fluttering bravely
in the heat of summer.