The Snow Queen: A Gentle Winters Lullaby

Hello Creators,

Holiday shine can feel sharp when your brain won’t switch off. 
We open with a warm check‑in for creators and performers who feel the December squeeze, then curl up with the first half of The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen—read softly to settle your breath and steady your thoughts.

The tale unfolds like a mirror to our creative lives. The troll’s shattered glass warps beauty and amplifies flaws, much like the feed, metrics, and self-comparison that creep in after dark. 

Looking ahead to the new year, the show returns in January 2026 with five new guest readers and a bigger project taking shape behind the scenes. 
For now, make tea, dim the room, and let the cadence of a classic carry you toward rest. 
If this brought you a little peace, subscribe, share it with a friend who needs a softer night, and leave a quick review to help more sleepless creatives find us.

I hope all of you have a lovely holiday season and a happy New Year!

Florence x

Chapters

• 0:05 Welcome And Year-End Message
• 0:41 Self-Compassion For Stressful Holidays
• 1:15 Introducing The Snow Queen
• 2:59 The Troll’s Distorting Mirror
• 6:07 Kay And Gerda’s Rooftop Garden
• 9:15 The Snow Queen Appears
• 12:17 Splinters In Eye And Heart
• 15:25 The Sledge Ride Into The Storm
• 18:33 Gerda Refuses To Believe He’s Gone
• 21:09 The River Carries Gerda Away
• 24:09 The Enchanted Garden Without Roses
• 28:05 Flowers Sing Their Own Stories
• 32:55 Breaking Free To The Wide World

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:05

Hello, creators, and welcome to Sleepless Creatives, a sleep podcast for performers and creators just like you. I'm your host, Florence. And welcome to our annual Christmas episode and the final episode of 2025. We will be kicking off again in January, and 2026 is going to be a very exciting year for the show, with five brand new guest readers all lined up, as well as something else a bit bigger, which is in the works as we speak. So follow us on social media to keep up with everything. And as always, I want to highlight the importance of self-care and giving yourself some self-compassion this month. Because Christmas is great for some, but for others it can be really stressful. I know that I tend to really struggle with anxiety around this time of year, especially, and it can open up a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms that just don't make us happy at all. So just be gentle with yourself and give yourself room to breathe because you are a work in progress, and that is okay. And now for today's story. So without further ado, we will be reading the first half of The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen. Written in 1844, the bitter coldness of the Snow Queen was actually inspired by Andersson's unrequited love for his friend Jenny Lind, who was a Swedish opera singer. This is a classic seasonal story that has been told through musicals, plays, and animation as well, and also gone on to inspire plenty of other works like Frozen. I actually remember seeing this as a play when I was much younger. I think it was at the Bristol Old Vit, but I could be mistaken. But yeah, I remember it very fondly as a child. So, whatever it is that you celebrate this time of year, I just want to wish everyone listening a happy Christmas, happy holidays, and have a wonderful new year. And now take a moment to get cozy and comfortable and drift off. Story the first, which tells of the looking glass and the bits of it. Attention, please, we're going to begin. When we've got to the end of the story, we shall know more than we do now. There was a wicked troll. He was one of the very worst sort. He was the devil. One day, he was in a temper, for he had made a looking glass which had this property: that everything good and pretty that was reflected in it shriveled away in it to almost nothing. But everything that was no good and looked ugly came out plain and showed even worse than it was. The most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled spinach in the glass, and the best of men grew hideous, or else stood on their heads and had no stomachs. Their faces were so distorted that they couldn't be recognized, and if anyone had a freckle, you could be sure it would be spread all over his nose and mouth. It was extraordinarily funny, the devil said. If a kind, pious thought passed through a man's mind, there came such a grimace in the glass that the troll devil couldn't but laugh at his clever invention. Everyone who attended the troll school, for he kept a troll school, spread the news all about that a miracle had come to pass. You could now see, they said, what the world and mankind really looked like. They ran about everywhere with the glass, and at last there wasn't a country or a person left who hadn't been distorted in it. After that, they decided to fly up to heaven itself and make fun of the angels and of God. The higher they flew with the glass, the more it grimaced, till they could scarcely keep hold of it. Up and up they flew, nearer to God and his angels, and then the glass quivered so fearfully with grimacing that it fell out of their hands and was dashed on the ground below, where it broke into hundreds of millions, billions, and even more pieces, and that very thing made matters worse than before, for some of the bits were hardly as big as a grain of sand, and these flew all about in the wide world. And when they got into people's eyes, they stuck there, and the people either saw everything crooked or else had only eyes for what was wrong in anything. For every little splinter of the glass had kept the same power that the whole glass had. Some people even got a little bit of the glass into their hearts, and that was horrible, for the heart became just like a lump of ice. Some of the pieces were so big that they were used for window glass, but it didn't pay to look at your friends through those window panes. Other pieces were made into spectacles, and that was a bad business. If people put on those spectacles in order to see correctly and judge rightly, the evil one laughed till he split. It tickled him so. But out in the world, little bits of glass were still flying about in the air. Now we are to hear all about it. Story the second. A little boy and a little girl. In the big town, where there are so many houses and people that there isn't room enough for everybody to have a little garden, and where, in consequence, most people have to content themselves with flowers in pots, there were two poor children who had a garden somewhat bigger than a flower pot. They weren't brother and sister, but they were as fond of each other as if they had been. Their parents were near neighbors, living in two attics, where the roof of the one house touched the other, and the gutter ran along the eaves. A small window in each house faced the other. You had only to step across the gutter, and you could get from one window to the other. The parents had, each of them, a large wooden box outside the window, and in it grew kitchen herbs which they used, and also a little rose tree. There was one in each box, and they flourished wonderfully. Then the parents thought of putting the boxes across the gutter in such a way that they reached almost from the one window to the other, and really looked like two bunches of flowers. The pea plants hung down over the boxes, and the rose trees put out long branches and twined about the windows and bent over to meet each other, and made almost a triumphal arch of leaves and blossoms. The boxes were very high up, and the children knew they must not climb up into them, but they were often allowed to get out and meet each other and sit on their little stools beneath the roses, and there they used to play very happily. In winter, of course, that pleasure was gone. The windows were often quite frozen over, but then they would heat copper pennies on the stove, and then put the hot pennies on the frosty pane, and there came a beautiful peephole, as round as round, behind which peeped out a blessed little kind eye. One out of each window. The little boys and the little girls. He was called Kay, and she was Gerda. In summer, they could get to each other with a single jump. In winter, they had to first go down a lot of stairs and then up a lot of stairs, while the snow came drifting down outside. Those are the white bees swarming, said the old grandmother. Have they got a queen too? asked the little boy, for he knew that the real bees have one. Indeed they have, said Grandmother. She flies where they swarm thickest. She is the biggest of them all, and she never stays still on the ground, but flies up again into the black cloud. Many a winter night she flies through the streets of the town and peeps in at the windows, and then they freeze into wonderful patterns like flowers. Yes, I've seen that, said both the children, and they knew it was true. Can the snow queen get in here? asked the little girl. Let her come, said the boy, and I'll put her on the hot stove and she'll melt. But Grandmother stroked his hair and told them stories about other things. In the evening, when Little Kay was at home and half undressed, he climbed up on the stool by the window and peeped through the little hole. A few snowflakes were falling outside, and one of them, the biggest of them all, remained lying in a corner of one of the flower boxes. This flake grew larger and larger, and at last turned into the complete shape of a lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, which seemed to be made out of millions of star-shaped flakes. She was very pretty and delicate, but she was of ice, blinding, dazzling ice. Yet she was alive. Her eyes gazed out like two bright stars, but there was no rest or quietness in them. She nodded towards the window and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened and jumped down off the stool, and then it seemed as if a large bird flew past the window. Next day was clear and frosty, and then came a thaw, and after that came springtime, and the sun shone and the green buds peeped forth. The swallows built their nests, the windows were open, and the children sat once more in their little garden high up in the gutter in the topmost story. That summer the roses blossomed as never before. The little girl had learnt a hymn in which there was something about roses, and at the mention of them she thought of her own, and she sang the hymn to the little boy, and he sang it too. The roses grow in the valley, where we meet the Jesus child. The little ones held each other by the hand and kissed the roses and gazed into God's bright sunshine and spoke to it as if the child Jesus were there. What lovely summer days were those, and how blessed it was to be out among the fresh rose bushes, which seemed as if they would never leave off blossoming. Kay and Gerda were sitting looking at a picture book with beasts and birds in it, and then, just as the clock in the great church tower was striking five, Kay said, Oh, something pricked my heart, and I've just got something in my eye. The little girl put her arm about his neck, and he winked his eye, but no, there was nothing to be seen. I think it's gone, he said. But it wasn't. It was one of those tiny bits that were broken off the glass. The troll glass. You remember about that. That horrid glass which made everything great and good that was reflected in it became mean and ugly. While the evil, nasty things came out, and every blemish was plain to be seen. Poor Kay. He had got a piece of it right into his heart, which would soon be like a lump of ice. For the moment it wasn't doing any harm. Still, there it was. What are you crying for? he asked. It makes you look horrid. There's nothing the matter with me. Ugh, he called out suddenly. That rose there's worm-eaten, and look at that other, it's all crooked, rotten roses they are, after all, like the boxes they're in. With that, he gave the box a hard kick and pulled off the two roses. What are you doing, Kay? cried the little girl, and when he saw she was frightened, he pulled off a third rose and ran in at his own window, leaving dear little Gerda. Later, when she brought him the picture book, he said, it was only fit for babies, and when grandmother told them stories, he was always breaking in with her butt, and if he could, he would follow her about with spectacles on and imitate her talking. Very soon he could imitate the walk and talk of everybody in their street. Everything that was odd or not nice about them, Kay could mimic, and people said, that boy's got an uncommon wit, to be sure, but it was the bit of glass he had got in his eye, and the bit he had in his heart, and so it came about that he would tease even little Gerda, who loved him with all her heart. The games he played were quite different now. They were very clever. One winter day, when the snowflakes were drifting down, he brought a big magnifying glass and held out the corner of his blue jacket and let the flakes fall in it. Now look through the glass, Gerda, he said, and there was every flake made much bigger, and looked like a beautiful flower or a ten-pointed star. Lovely it was to see. Look how clever it is, said Kay. It's much more interesting than the real flowers are, and there's not a single thing wrong with them. They're perfectly accurate. If only they didn't melt. A little later, Kay came in with big mittens on, and his sledge hung on his back. He shouted to Gerda, right in her ear, I've got leave to drive in the big square where the others are playing. And he was off. Out there in the square, the boldest of the boys often used to tie their sledges to a farmer's cart and drive a good long way with it. It was excellent fun. At the height of their sport, a large sledge came by. It was painted white all over, and in it was someone wrapped in a shaggy white fur and wearing a shaggy white cape. This sledge drove twice around the square, and little Kay made haste and tied his own little sledge to it and drove off with it. Faster and faster it went, into the next street. The driver turned his head and nodded to Kay in a friendly way. It seemed as if they knew each other. Every time Kay thought of loosing his sledge, the driver nodded again, so Kay stayed where he was, and they drove right out through the town gate. Then the snow began to fall so thick that the boy couldn't see his hand before him as he drove on, and he hastily loosed the rope so as to let go of the big sledge, but it made no difference. His little trap held fast to it, and it went like the wind. He called out loudly, but no one heard, and the snow drifted down and the sledge flew onward. Sometimes it made a bound as if it were going over ditches or fences. He was in a dreadful fright. He tried to say the Lord's prayer, but he could only remember the multiplication table. The snowflakes grew bigger and bigger, till at last they looked like large white hens. Suddenly they parted. The big sledge pulled up, and the person who was driving in it rose. The fur and the cap were all of snow. It was a lady, tall and slender, shining white. It was a lady, tall and slender, shining white. The snow queen. We have travelled well, she said. But you mustn't freeze. Creep into my bearskin. She put him beside her in the sledge, and he felt as if he were sinking into a snowdrift. Are you still cold? she asked, and kissed him on the forehead. Ugh, it was colder than ice and stuck straight into his heart, which itself was almost a lump of ice. He felt as if he was dying, but only for a moment. Then all was right. He didn't notice the cold about him anymore. My sledge. Don't leave my sledge behind. That was the first thing he remembered. So it was tied on to one of the white hens, which flew after them with a sledge on its back. Once more the Snow Queen kissed Kay, and he had forgotten little Gerda and grandmother and everyone at home. No more kisses now, said she, or I should kiss you to death. Kay looked at her. Very pretty she was, a cleverer, fairer face he could not imagine. She didn't seem now to be of ice, as she was when she sat outside the window and beckoned him. In his eyes she was perfect, and he felt no fear. He told how he knew mental arithmetic, and with fractions too, and the area of the country and how many inhabitants, and she smiled all the time, till he thought that what he knew didn't come to much. He gazed up into the immense spaces of the air, and she flew on with him, flew high among the dark clouds, and the storm wind whistled and roared as if it were singing old ballads. Over forest and lake they flew, over sea and land. Below them the cold blast whistled, the wolves howled, the snow sparkled. Above them flew the black coring crows, but over all shone the moon, large and bright, and by its light Kay watched through the long, long winter night. By the day he slumbered at the feet of the Snow Queen. Story the third. But how fared little Gerda when Kay came back no more? Where could he be? Nobody knew. Nobody could tell. The boys could only say they had seen him tie his little sledge to another fine large one, which had driven down the street and out at the gate. Nobody knew where he was. Many tears were shed. Sore and long did little Gerda weep. Then they said he was dead, drowned in the river that ran past the town. Dark indeed and long were those winter days. Then came spring with warmer sunshine. Kay is dead and gone, said Little Gerda. I don't believe it, said the sunshine. He's dead and gone, she said to the swallows. I don't believe it, they answered. And at last, little Gerda didn't believe it either. I'll put on my new red shoes, she said one morning early, the ones Kay has never seen, and I'll go down to the river and ask about him. It was quite early. She kissed her old grandmother as she slept, put on the red shoes, and went out of the gate to the river, quite alone. Is it true that you have taken my little playfellow? I'll give my red shoes if you give him back to me. But the waves, she thought, nodded in a queer fashion, so she took her gay red shoes, the most precious thing she had, and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves carried them straight back to her on shore. It seemed that the river would not take the most precious thing she had, because it had not got little Kay. But she thought she hadn't thrown the shoes far enough out, so she climbed into a boat that lay in the rushes, and went out to the further end of it and threw out the shoes. But the boat was not moored fast, and with the movement she made it floated away from the shore. She noticed this and made haste to get out, but before she could get back, the boat was more than a fathom away. And began to drift more quickly along. Little Gerda was very much frightened and began to cry, but nobody heard her except the sparrows, and they couldn't carry her ashore, but they flew along the bank and sang as if to comfort her. Here we are, here we are. The boat was carried downstream. Little Gerda sat still in her stockinged feet. Her little red shoes floated behind, but couldn't reach the boat, which was now travelling faster. Both banks were very pretty, with beautiful flowers, old trees and sloping fields with sheep and cows, but never a man was to be seen. Perhaps the river will carry me to Little Kay, thought Gerda. This put her in better spirits, and she stood up and for many hours gazed at the pretty green banks. At last she came to a large cherry orchard, in which was a little house with quaint blue and red windows, and for the rest a thatched roof. And outside two wooden soldiers, who were shouldering arms for everyone who came sailing by. Gerda called to them, thinking they were alive, but very naturally they didn't answer. She came quite near them. The river carried the boat straight towards the shore. Gerda called out yet louder, and then there came out of the house an old, old woman, supporting herself on a crooked stick. She had a large sun hat on, painted with the most splendid flowers. Poor dear little child, said the old woman, how ever did you get out here on this great big river, far out into the wide world? And with that, the old woman stepped into the water and hooked her stick fast to the boat and pulled it ashore and lifted little Gerda out. Gerda was glad to be on dry land again, but still she was a little afraid of a strange old woman. Come now and tell me who you are and how you got here, she said, and Gerda told her everything, and the old woman shook her head and said, Hmm. And when Gerda had told her everything and asked if she had seen Little Kay, the woman said he hadn't passed that way, but he would come, sure enough, and she wasn't to be worried, but must taste her cherries and look at her flowers that were prettier than any picture book, and could each of them tell a whole story. Then she took Gerda by the hand, and they went into the little house, and the old woman locked the door. The windows were placed very high up, and the glass in them was red and blue and yellow. The daylight shone very oddly through them, with all their colours, but on the table there were most beautiful cherries, and Gerda ate as many as she liked, as she was allowed to, and while she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a gold comb, and the hair curled and shone lovely and yellow about her little face, the round face that looked like a rose. I've been longing for a sweet little girl like you, said the old woman. You'll see how well we two shall get on. And all the time she was combing little Gerda's hair, and all the time she was combing little Gerda's hair, Gerda was forgetting more and more her foster brother Kay, for the old woman was skilled in witchcraft, but she wasn't a wicked witch. She only used witchcraft a little for her own pleasure, and just now she wanted very much to help little Gerda. In order to do so, she went out into the garden and stretched out her hooked stick towards all the rose bushes. And though they were all blooming beautifully, they all sank down into the black earth, and you couldn't see where they had been. The old woman was afraid that when Gerda saw the roses, she would think of her own roses, and then remember little Kay and run away. Then she took Gerda out into the flower garden. Dear me, what fragrance and beauty there was there. All the flowers one could think of, flowers belonging to every season, stood there in their full bloom. No picture book could be more gaily colored and pretty. Gerda jumped for joy and played about till the sun set behind the tall cherry trees. Then she was given a lovely bed with red silk pillows that were stuffed with blue violets, and there she slept and dreamt as beautiful dreams as any queen on her wedding day. Next day, she played among the flowers again in the hot sunshine, and so many days went by. Gerda knew every flower, but, many as there were of them, she thought that there was one missing, but she didn't know which. Then, one day she was sitting looking at the old woman's sun hat with the flowers painted on it, and the prettiest of all that were there was a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it away from her hat when she got rid of the others in the garden. It only shows what comes of not having your wits about you. Why? said Gerda, aren't there any roses? And she ran in among the beds and looked and looked, but there were none to be found. Then she sat down and cried, but her hot tears fell exactly on the spot where a rose tree had sunk down, and when the tears wetted the ground, the tree rose up all at once, blossoming just as when it sank down. And Gerda threw her arms around it and kissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful ones at home, and with them of little Kay. Oh, how I've been dawdling, said the little girl. I was to find Kay. Don't know where he is, she asked the roses. Do you think he's dead and gone? Dead he isn't, said the roses. We've been down in the ground where all the dead people are, but Kay wasn't there. Thanks, thanks, said Little Gerda, and went off to the other flowers and looked into their cups and asked, Do you know where little Kay is? But every one of the flowers was standing in the sun and dreaming its own story or life, and of these little Gerda heard ever so many, but none of them knew anything about Kay. What said the tiger lily? Do you hear the drum, boom, boom? There are only two notes boom, boom. Hark to the woman's dirge, hark to the cry of the priests. In her long red robe, the Indian woman stands on the pyre, and the flames rise round her and her dead husband, but the woman is thinking of the living one who stands there in the circle, of him whose eyes burn hotter than the flames, the fire of whose eyes pierces nearer her heart than the flames which will quickly burn her body to ashes. Can the heart's flame perish in the flames of the pyre? I don't understand that in the least, said Little Gerda. That's my story, said the tiger lily. What says the bindweed? High above the narrow field path hangs an ancient castle. Thick evergreens grow about the old red walls, leaf on leaf, away up to the balcony, and there stands a fair maiden. She bends over the parapet and looks down upon the road. No rose hangs fresher on its spray than she. No apple blossom borne by the breeze from its tree floats more gracefully. How her costly silken kirtle rustles, cometh he not. Is it Kay you mean? asked little Gerda. I'm only talking of my story, my dream, the bindweed answered. What says the little snowdrop? Between the trees the long board hangs on the ropes. It's a swing. Two pretty little girls, their frocks white as snow, and long green silk ribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting and swinging. Their brother, who is bigger than they, is standing up in the swing, with his arm around the ropes to steady himself. For in one hand he has a little saucer, and in the other a clay pipe, and he's blowing soap bubbles. To and fro goes the swing, and the bubbles float with lovely changing colours. The last one is still hanging to the pipe stem and swaying in the breeze. On goes the swing. The little black dog, as light as the bubbles, stands on his hind legs and wants to get into the swing too. It flies past, he tumbles down, and barks and is angry. They laugh at him. The bubbles burst. A swinging plank, a waving picture and foam. That is my song. I suppose it's very pretty what you're talking about, but you say it so sadly, and you never mention Kay. What do the hyacinths say? There were three fair sisters, delicate and fine. The robe of one was red, the second's was blue, and the third's all white. Hand in hand they danced by the still lake in the bright moonlight. They were no elfin maidens, but of the children of men. There came a waft of fragrance, and the maidens vanished in the forest. Stronger grew the perfume. Three coffins, wherein the three maidens lay, glided from the depths of the forest, glided over the lake. Fireflies flew round them like tiny evening lamps. The dancing maidens, do they slumber or are they dead? The scent of the flowers tells that they are dead. The evening bell rings out over the dead. You make me quite wretched, said Little Gerda. Your scent is so strong, I can't help thinking of the dead maidens. Oh dear, is little Kay really dead? The roses have been down in the ground, and they say no. Ding dong rang out the hyacinth bells. We're not ringing for little Kay. We don't know him. We're only singing our own song, the only one we know. So Gerda went to the Buttercup, shining out from among its brilliant green leaves. You're a bright little son, said Gerda. Tell me if you know where I can find my playfellow. The buttercup shone very prettily and looked back at Gerda. What song now could the Buttercup sing? Not one about Kay, at any rate. In a little yard, God's sun was shining warm on the first day of spring. Its beams crept down the neighbor's white wall. Close by grew the first yellow flowers, shining like gold in the hot sunbeams. The old grandmother was out of doors in her chair. Her pretty granddaughter, the poor servant maid, came home upon a short visit and gave her grandmother a kiss. There was gold, beautiful gold in that blessed kiss. Gold on the lips, gold in the heart, gold up there in early morn. Look, that's my little story, said the buttercup. Oh, my poor old granny, sighed Gerda. Yes, she must be longing for me, and unhappy about me, as she was about little Kay. But I'll soon be home again and bring Kay with me. It's no good asking the flowers. They only know their own song and tell me nothing. So she tucked up her little frock to run the quicker. But the narcissus hit against her leg as she jumped over it, and she stopped and looked at the tall flower and asked, Do you happen to know anything? And she stooped down to it. And what did it say? I can see myself. I can see myself, said the narcissist. Oh, how strong my scent is. Up in the little garret stands a little ballet girl half dressed. Standing first on one leg she is, then on both, and kicking out the whole world. She's only an illusion. She's pouring water out of a teapot onto a bit of stuff that she's holding. It's her stays. Cleanliness is a good thing. The white frock hangs on its peg. It too has been washed in the teapot and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and a saffron yellow kerchief about her neck, which makes the dress shine whiter. Legs up in the air. Look how she stands on a stalk. I can see myself. I can see myself. I don't care about that in the least, said Gerda. It's no use telling me that. So she ran to the border of the garden. The door was locked, but she twisted at the rusty staple till it came away, and the door flew open, and then out ran little Gerda. And then out ran little Gerda, barefoot into the wide world. Thrice she looked back, but there was nobody coming after her. At last she could run no further, and sat down on a big stone, and when she looked about her, why, summer was over and it was late autumn. You couldn't see that inside the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine and flowers of all seasons bloomed. Good heavens, how have I dawdled? Good heavens, how I have dawdled, said little Gerda. It's autumn now. I daren't rest a minute. So she got up and went on. Oh, how bruised and tired were her little feet, and how cold and raw it was all round. The long leaves of the willow were pale and yellow, and the mist dripped off them in water drops. One leaf after another fell, and only the slow bush had kept its fruit, sour fruit that dried up your mouth. Oh, how grey and dismal it was out in the wild world.