When Meghan Markle released a playful, unseen video of her and Prince Harry dancing in a hospital room while she was pregnant with Princess Lilibet, the media responded with a mix of ridicule, voyeuristic curiosity, and condescension. Shared on Instagram to mark Lilibet’s fourth birthday, the video shows Meghan—heavily pregnant—dancing in a black maternity dress, joined by Harry in casual jeans and a hoodie. The song of choice, Starrkeisha’s “Baby Mama,” underscores the couple’s effort to inject humor and lightness into a physically and emotionally intense moment.

Some viewers branded the video “toe-curling,” calling it cringeworthy or staged. But these reactions say more about societal discomfort with maternal agency, Black womanhood, and the performative expectations we place on public figures—especially those who deviate from traditional royal archetypes.

From a sociocultural perspective, the backlash isn’t simply about the dance. It’s about Meghan daring to control the narrative around her pregnancy. Historically, royal women have had their maternity experiences tightly choreographed. Their labor is announced with formality. Photos are staged. Public sentiment is shaped by palace-approved framing. Meghan has repeatedly rejected that script—first by giving birth in the U.S., then by releasing candid family moments directly to the public.

That kind of autonomy doesn’t sit well with an audience accustomed to docility and polish from royal women.

The video shows something more universal and human: two expectant parents trying to stay joyful, hopeful, and connected amid the anxiety of childbirth. For many women—especially women of color—pregnancy and childbirth are fraught with medical risks and systemic neglect. A light-hearted dance in a maternity ward can be both a coping mechanism and a way to reclaim joy in a space that too often isn’t designed for their safety.

Critics argue the video is attention-seeking. But let’s be honest: nearly every royal photo op is attention-seeking. Princess Kate’s carefully curated postpartum portraits outside the Lindo Wing are no less choreographed. The only difference is who’s directing the frame. Meghan’s dance—filmed by Harry, for themselves—is not PR; it’s personal.

The cultural reaction is laced with judgment toward Meghan’s American-ness, her biracial identity, and her status as an outsider who didn’t “earn” the reverence afforded to British royalty. When Meghan dances, it’s called “embarrassing.” When other royals stage polished family portraits, it’s called “graceful.” This double standard reveals how power, race, and tradition are policed even in the most mundane of family moments.

Moreover, the choice to post the video as part of Lilibet’s birthday tribute adds emotional texture to what could have been a sterile, PR-managed celebration. Alongside the video, Meghan shared sweet posts about Lilibet’s bond with her father, including a photo of Harry holding newborn Lilibet and walking hand-in-hand with her on a sandy trail.

These moments push back against narratives that portray Harry and Meghan as disconnected from their roots or children. They remind the public that at the core of their departure from royal life was a desire to protect their family, not abandon duty. By reclaiming storytelling, they’re resisting the reduction of their lives to headlines, leaks, and court briefings.

Some might call the dance “cringe.” But to others—particularly women who’ve been through childbirth, who have labored under stress or stigma, who’ve tried to hold on to laughter when things felt overwhelming—the video might feel liberating.

And that’s the point.

By daring to show joy, by refusing to edit themselves into palatability, Meghan and Harry are creating a different kind of royal archive—one where emotion isn’t a weakness, and where dancing through the pain is not only allowed but celebrated.