My dad would call me his Cuban princess because I had really dark

In the words of Bella Thorne, we hear a whisper that crosses generations and mirrors the eternal rhythm of identity and transformation: “My dad would call me his Cuban princess because I had really dark olive skin because I was always in the sun; but I don't really go in the sun anymore, so that is why I am so white.” Though spoken with the simplicity of a memory, this phrase contains the full weight of change, of heritage, and of the shifting balance between who we were and who we become. It speaks not only of a young woman’s recollection but of every soul who has watched their reflection alter as the seasons of life pass by.

Once, the sun was her crown — a golden flame that kissed her olive skin, a mark of her father’s affection, a reminder of her roots. The name “Cuban princess” carried warmth, pride, and the sacred connection between child and parent. But as time drew its circle, she turned away from the light that once defined her, and her complexion faded into a softer hue — the whiteness of withdrawal, of distance from the sun that once loved her. In this transformation, we witness the deeper parable: that what we neglect, even unconsciously, fades from us; and that our identities are living things, nourished only by what we continue to honor.

In ancient times, the philosopher Heraclitus taught that one cannot step into the same river twice, for the waters are always flowing. So too, our essence is ever in motion. Bella’s words echo this eternal law. The sun of her childhood — symbolic of energy, vitality, and cultural fire — once gave her color and a name. But as she withdrew from that light, her skin changed, and so too did the outward image of who she was. The transformation of the body mirrors the transformation of the spirit; both are sculpted by what we expose ourselves to. When we distance ourselves from the sources of our heritage or joy, we risk losing sight of them within ourselves.

Consider the tale of Helen Keller, who, though blind and deaf, found her way into the light through the guidance of her teacher, Anne Sullivan. Though Helen could not see the sun, she felt it through the warmth of another’s touch, and through that warmth, she discovered her soul’s illumination. Likewise, Bella’s memory reminds us that the sun — literal or symbolic — must be felt to be known. When we close ourselves off from it, when we live in shadow, the vivid colors of our being begin to pale. Yet, within that loss lies the seed of rediscovery.

To live fully, one must seek the sun in all forms — not merely the one that burns in the sky, but also the sun that glows in the heart, the fire that connects us to our ancestors, to our passions, and to our sense of belonging. We are not meant to stay untouched by the world. The skin darkens, the spirit deepens, and through that exposure, we become more alive. Just as bronze must face flame to be shaped, so must the soul face experience to reveal its true form.

And yet, there is tenderness in retreat. Perhaps her turning from the sun was not rejection but rebirth — a passage into reflection. The whiteness she mentions may symbolize renewal, the blank page upon which new light can be written. Just as the moon shines by borrowing the sun’s light, one may still hold radiance even in quiet or shadow. Life, after all, is the dance between exposure and retreat, between the brightness of becoming and the calm of being.

Let this be the lesson passed to you, traveler of time: never forget the suns that once defined you. Do not let the fires of your heritage grow cold, nor the warmth of your passions fade into memory. Honor the light that shaped your beginning, and when you must step into the shade, carry that light within. Speak your lineage with pride, live under skies that test and transform you, and remember always — the soul, like the skin, reflects what it loves.

Action for the living: Go outside and let the sun touch your face. Recall who you once were when you felt most alive. Write the names of those who gave you your light, and thank them. Spend time with what warms your spirit — music, heritage, people, purpose. For only by standing once more in that glow will you see yourself clearly again, radiant with both memory and becoming.