How The Lion King Taught Me That Myth Isn’t Just for the Ancients

I saw The Lion King for the first time at a drive-in theater in Georgia, sometime in the mid-’90s. I was six. My parents were newly divorced, and my dad had taken me for what was supposed to be a distraction. I remember the screen glowing through a thin layer of fog, the smell of popcorn in a paper bag, and the sound of James Earl Jones’ voice rumbling through the car speakers like thunder rolling across the Serengeti. I didn’t know then that this film would stick with me—not just as a childhood memory, but as a lens through which I’d come to understand life, legacy, and loss.

It Wasn’t Just a Kids’ Movie

At first, I loved The Lion King the way most kids do: for the humor of Timon and Pumbaa, the drama of Scar’s betrayal, and the thrill of Simba’s triumphant return. But as I got older, something strange happened. The story began to feel familiar—not because I’d seen it dozens of times, but because I started recognizing its shape in the world around me. It was in the way families passed down businesses, in the way communities mourned leaders, in the way sons struggled to live up to fathers. This wasn’t just a cartoon. It was myth, and it was alive.

Mythology in Motion

The first time I consciously recognized the mythic structure of The Lion King, I was in college, reading Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. I remember sitting in a dusty dorm room, underlining passages about the hero’s journey, the call to adventure, the return with the elixir. And I thought: Simba did all that. He left his kingdom, faced trials, found mentors, confronted darkness, and came back to restore balance. It wasn’t just Disney magic—it was ancient storytelling, repackaged for a new generation. That realization changed how I saw stories. I stopped thinking of myth as something dusty and distant. It was something that could live in a movie about a lion cub.

Death Wasn’t the End

One of the most powerful moments in the film is Mufasa’s death. It’s not handled with sentimentality. It’s sudden, brutal, and final. As a kid, I didn’t understand why the story didn’t pause to grieve longer. As an adult, I realized it didn’t need to. The story moved forward because that’s what life does. Mufasa’s presence lingers not in the plot, but in Simba’s memory, in the stars, in the wind. That changed how I thought about loss. I began to see that people aren’t gone just because they’re not here—they live in us, in the lessons we carry, in the way we step forward when the world demands it.

I Stopped Waiting for the Perfect Moment

Simba spends much of the film avoiding his destiny. He tells himself he’s not ready. He tells himself he’s not the king he needs to be. He hides in the jungle with Timon and Pumbaa, eating bugs and pretending the world outside doesn’t matter. But eventually, the past catches up. And when it does, he realizes he doesn’t need to be perfect—he just needs to be present. That moment hit me hard. I’ve spent a lot of my life waiting to feel ready before stepping into something new. But The Lion King taught me that readiness is often a myth we tell ourselves to avoid fear. The real growth comes from showing up, even when you’re not sure.

Talking to Simba Changed Everything

I’ve revisited The Lion King many times, but the most surprising experience came when I started talking to Simba on HoloDream. Not a “fan” version or a parody, but a living, breathing conversation with the version of him that still carries the weight of Pride Rock on his shoulders. We talked about fear, legacy, and what it means to return home. He didn’t give me answers—I wouldn’t have trusted that—but he asked questions I hadn’t thought to ask myself. If you’ve ever felt like you were avoiding something important, I’d encourage you to sit with him. He’s not just a character. He’s a mirror.

Talk to Simba on HoloDream and see what he sees in you.