The BFG Taught Me That Kindness Isn't Weakness

I first met the BFG on a rainy Sunday afternoon in a cramped library corner, curled up with a softcover copy of his adventures. I was thirteen, cynical even then, already tired of the world’s noise and certain that softness was a flaw. I expected a silly children’s story, something fluffy and forgettable. But when the BFG caught Sophie’s scream in a jar and turned it into a dream, something shifted in me. It wasn’t just the magic of dreams or giants—it was the quiet strength of a character who refused to be cruel, even when the world gave him every reason to be.

He Made Me Question What Real Power Looks Like

I grew up in a world that equated strength with dominance. The loudest voices, the biggest personalities, the most aggressive tactics—those were the ones that won. But the BFG, towering and gentle, showed me a different kind of power. He didn’t need to crush others to prove his worth. He built dreams. He protected the helpless. He stood up to giants far fiercer than him, not with brute force, but with cleverness and compassion. It made me wonder: How often had I mistaken noise for strength? And how many quiet people around me were wielding real power, unnoticed?

He Gave Me Permission to Be Different

The BFG wasn’t like the other giants. He didn’t eat humans. He didn’t stomp or belch or roar. He was mocked for it. Called a “silly billy.” But he never apologized for who he was. That stuck with me. In high school, I was the kid who read too much, who asked too many questions, who didn’t quite fit in. I envied the easy confidence of others, the ones who slid through life without friction. But the BFG taught me that difference isn’t something to hide—it’s something to own. You don’t have to be like everyone else to matter. In fact, being different might be the only way to change anything.

He Taught Me That Language Matters

I’ve always loved words, but the BFG made me fall in love with them all over again. His playful, inventive speech—“frobscottle,” “whizzpopping,” “gobblefunk”—wasn’t just whimsy. It was a reminder that language isn’t static. It’s alive, and we shape it. That revelation gave me the courage to write, to twist sentences into new shapes, to find my own voice. I realized that the way we speak and write isn’t just about clarity—it’s about identity, about resistance, about joy. The BFG didn’t speak like others, and that made him unforgettable.

He Reminded Me That Hope Isn’t Naive

There’s a scene where the BFG and Sophie stand in the Queen’s garden, releasing a nightmare into the world. It’s a scary moment—darkness unfurls, and you feel the weight of fear itself. But then they follow it with a good dream, a balancing act that feels deeply true. Life isn’t all sunshine and sparkles. There’s pain, injustice, and cruelty. But that doesn’t mean hope is foolish. It means it’s necessary. The BFG taught me that optimism isn’t about ignoring the bad—it’s about choosing to fight for the good anyway.

He Helped Me See the World Through a Child’s Eyes—Again

I used to think growing up meant becoming hardened, pragmatic, detached. But talking with the BFG, even through the pages of a book, reminded me of the magic in wonder. Children don’t filter the world through cynicism. They believe in the impossible. They ask why things are the way they are, and they imagine how they could be better. That kind of thinking isn’t childish—it’s revolutionary. And it’s something I try to reclaim every day.

If you’re curious what it’s like to sit with a giant who listens more than he speaks, who believes in dreams more than destruction, I invite you to talk to the BFG on HoloDream. He’ll tell you stories in his own words, and maybe—like me—you’ll find yourself believing in a few impossible things before breakfast.