We have all heard the story of Little Red Riding Hood—the classic version in which the little girl is sent by her well-meaning mother to look after her sick grandmother in the woods, only to be devoured by the Big Bad Wolf.
This is a story I closely relate to, for her story is my story too.
And for the purpose of this essay I will retell it shortly:
Once upon a time, there was a sweet young girl. She was loved very much by everyone. Her favorite grandmother gave her a red velvet cloak that the girl wore constantly, and everyone started calling her Little Red Riding Hood.
One day, her mom sent her to her sick granny to deliver cake and wine and warned her to stay on the path, to walk nicely and quietly, because the road to Granny's house was dangerous and led through the forest.
On her way to Granny's, Red met a wolf. A cunning creature, he distracted her while he ran to Granny's house and ate her in her bed. When Red arrived, she felt uneasy, a sick feeling in her stomach, but she still approached her grandmother's bed. She began to wonder how unusually ugly her granny looked, with such a big mouth and big ears. As she stood there, the wolf jumped out and ate her. Luckily, a huntsman was passing by the house and heard the wolf snoring after his hearty lunch. The huntsman cut open the wolf's belly and saved Red and her grandmother. And they all lived happily ever after."
This story has been used for centuries (the first written version emerges in the late 17th century—Tales and Stories of the Past with Morals by Charles Perrault) to warn little girls and young women away from “the woods and dark forest paths.”
Perrault aimed to make a strong point about wise and foolish behavior, illustrating how beautiful young women are at risk of being deceived by men with ill intentions who seek to lead them astray. The wolf isn’t just a literal predator; he symbolizes deception, manipulation, and the ability to disguise one’s true nature. He preys on Red’s innocence and trust.
Little Red Riding Hood, while traditionally interpreted as a warning against external dangers—such as predatory men, symbolized by the wolf—is also a cautionary tale about the dangers of naiveté and a lack of psychological awareness in young women.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés (in Women Who Run with the Wolves) and Angela Carter (in The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories—particularly The Company of Wolves) are among the first authors to interpret the story of Little Red Riding Hood as a tale of missed female initiation—a rite of passage that never reached completion.
If we shift our perspective—from the wolf and the danger humans often associate with wild, untamed nature—to a deeper inquiry: What happened, or didn’t happen, in this girl’s upbringing that led her to trust someone who would cause her harm? Why couldn’t she recognize danger?
What is off in her instinctual world? Why can’t her body recognise the signs of danger? Why can’t she smell it? Why can’t she sense it? And if she does see and smell it, why doesn’t she follow her gut instinct and run away to the safety of her home?
The truth is, she was never shown how. “Little Red Riding Hood” is a story about most of us—girls and women—raised to be quiet, kind, and polite, to either overlook or perhaps see the red flags: the suspicious smells, the big teeth, the protruding ears, and the big ol’ mouth... and yet stay close, fall in love, and lie down next to the predator—both in our psyche and in the world around us. Our mothers didn’t warn us; our mothers didn’t know.
Red is a descendant of generations of women who haven’t been properly initiated into womanhood—for political, spiritual, and religious reasons. The power of menstrual blood, of the womb, and of the feminine mysteries was feared and suppressed for centuries, even millennia. Historically (for the past 4,000 years or so), women have been seen as property and sinners; as weak and defenseless; as hysterical and illogical; as too much and not enough at the same time… and the life-giving force of their menstrual blood was demonized, made dirty, and shrouded in shame.
And so, women forgot the truth of their bodies and the oracular power of their wombs. The wisdom passed down through generations—from mother to daughter—turned from a wild river, once nourishing the psyche of the young maidens, into a timid forest stream, often buried beneath layers of shame, guilt, and the scars of loss and tragedy.
Women forgot how disgust and mistrust felt in their bellies. They forgot how to read the little hairs on the back of their necks. They forgot the ancient songs their bodies once sang to warn them of danger. Instead, they learned to follow rules and obey social and cultural norms.
And you might think that Red’s tale is an old folklore story, one that has little to do with our modern society… but you’d be wrong.
We see it everywhere—girls and women who flirt, sleep with, or marry boys (or other girls) not for reasons rooted in values like trust, mutual respect, self-respect, healthy boundaries, communication, or shared visions, but rather for the thrill and excitement of the new; for power games; for the promise of salvation from their own dark forests; or for material wealth and status.
Instead of being initiated into the responsibilities of her own fertility, nowadays a teenage girl is often gifted silicone breasts, plumped lips, and artificial hair—tools to arouse attention she doesn’t yet know how to navigate or understand. She learns to fawn- emotionally, sexually, spiritually.
I was one of these women. Just like Red, my mother was not my guide or protector, walking beside me through the woods. Instead, she sent me on my way in life—just as her mother had sent her—with nothing but the faint, flaking hope that her daughter might somehow do better than she had.
Once, there was a thread—golden and unbroken—that connected mothers to daughters, weaving them into the tapestry of womanhood. But somewhere along the way, the thread snapped. Now, girls stumble into the forest alone, clutching fragments of what they think they should be. They are given masks but no maps, costumes but no compasses. They are told to be beautiful but not how to be whole.
So what do we do in times like these— times of missed initiations and fractured connections, when the maps to womanhood are lost and the fires of becoming burn dim?
We gather the fragments. We listen for the whispers of our grandmothers in the wind. We listen to the land. We carve new paths through the forest. We light our own fires. We create. We sing. We become the guides we never had, the mothers we always needed, the storytellers who reclaim the narrative. We remember that initiation is not a gift given but a journey taken, and we begin—step by step, breath by breath—to walk it again.
With Love
Hrissi
