Pageantry is Advocacy

I always knew pageantry carried a stigma—at one point, I even perpetuated the harmful discourse myself. I knew people would have assumptions—shallow, performative, outdated. But I hoped that my presence and performance would be enough to challenge those ideas. I hoped people would see me for who I am and recognize that pageantry could be something more. That I could be something more.

But lately, I’ve realized just how deeply those biases run. The first time someone mentioned my pageant background, it wasn’t out of curiosity or even admiration. We were in a conversation about leadership styles, navigating a difference in how we approach group collaboration. And then, out of nowhere, I was hit with the question: “Don’t you come from pageants?” I asked what they meant by that. They replied that my leadership felt performative. Maybe even fake.

That moment stung. It frustrated me, but more than that, it broke my heart. Because it felt like I was being reduced to a stereotype. Too polished to be sincere, too bubbly to be taken seriously. The irony is that in the pageant world, I was considered too unrefined, too imperfect. Yet in professional spaces, I’m apparently too polished to be real. The truth is I’m just a concise speaker with a warm presence. That’s who I am. And suddenly, that became a reason to question my character.

I hoped it was an isolated moment. A misunderstanding. But this week, it happened again.

Another peer, someone I respected, brought up my pageant background in a conversation about how I show up in group spaces. Same tone. Same implication. It felt like an echo of the earlier conversation, and I could only assume it stemmed from a conversation they’d had with the first peer. This time, I didn’t shrink. I explained. I told them that yes, I competed in pageants, but I never really saw myself as a “pageant girl.” I entered on a whim, and I won by being myself. I left because I didn’t agree with parts of the system. But I also told them that pageantry was the beginning of my advocacy work.

However when I shared that, and my peer simply replied, “I wouldn’t tell people that,” I didn’t even know what to say. The conversation quickly moved on, and in the moment, there were so many other things weighing on me that I let it go. But now that a few days have passed, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Pageantry is Advocacy.

I don’t have the time or space here to give a full history lesson on the women who have worn crowns and used their platforms to raise awareness, fundraise, speak truth to power, and change lives. But I could. I could give you names and stories of national, state, and local titleholders who have used the Miss America Organization and other systems as springboards for continued impact.

Advocacy means supporting a cause. Pageantry might not look like your idea of activism, but that doesn’t make it any less real. Every single contestant in the Miss America system has a platform. They champion it. They speak on it. They work for it. Thousands of hours go into that work, and many of those women never receive recognition for it beyond their communities. But it’s real.

I wish I had pushed back, but I was flabbergasted. I wish I had shared that my platform was youth mental health. During my very first pageant, the first time a microphone was placed in my hands, I stood on stage and spoke candidly about my own experiences with mental illness and survival. I urged the audience to care about prevention and the importance of destigmatization. That moment marked the beginning. Just a few hours later, I was crowned, and from then on, I used every ounce of visibility to keep that conversation going. Mental health became my mission, and advocacy became my purpose.

I gave keynote speeches, including one to an audience of over 500 people at a gala where hundreds of thousands of dollars were raised for mental health resources. I spoke on panels, answered difficult questions about stigma, gave presentations to students across the county, started my own nonprofit, met with political leaders, superintendents, mayors, and deans. All of it began with pageantry.

So when I finished sharing that, and my peer simply replied, “I wouldn’t tell people that,” I didn’t even know what to say.

I’m proud that my advocacy started on that stage. I’m proud of what I built with the access that crown gave me. And I refuse to be ashamed of it. When someone says, “I wouldn’t tell people that,” what they’re really saying is, “That doesn’t fit into the box I put you in.” And that’s not my problem to fix.

It’s exhausting to be misunderstood. It’s painful to be reduced to an outdated stereotype when the reality is so much more complex. And it’s disappointing when people form opinions without ever really getting to know you.

But here’s the thing. I know the work I’ve done. I know the rooms I’ve spoken in, the lives I’ve touched, the difference I’ve made. And I know who I am. So the next time someone wants to dismiss me with, “Don’t you come from pageants?” I’ll say yes, proudly.

Because pageantry is not the opposite of substance. For me, it was the start of everything. And if some people spent as much time talking to me as they did talking about me, they might realize that for themselves.

Until then, I’ll keep showing up.

And I’ll keep advocating.

No crown required.