The Day I Realized Beautiful People Break Too

I remember exactly where I was when I heard about Cheslie Kryst.

Everyone online kept repeating the same thing: "But she was so beautiful. ”She was successful. ”She looked so happy.”

And while the world was shocked, something in me felt triggered. Not because I related to suicide itself — I never have — but because I understood what it felt like for people to assume that strength, beauty, or success automatically means someone is okay.

What people don’t realize is that sometimes the people who look the strongest are just the people who learned how to survive quietly.

That moment stayed with me.

Because although my experiences looked different, I knew what it felt like to carry pain while still showing up polished. I knew what it felt like to be misunderstood, judged, isolated, and expected to keep moving like nothing happened.

And honestly? That realization became one of the first moments that made me truly pay attention to pageantry differently.

Not just the gowns or the crowns. The platform. The voice. The visibility.

Because for the first time, I saw how powerful it could be when women use their stories publicly.

Before Pageantry, There Was Survival

Long before I ever thought about competing, I was navigating some of the hardest experiences of my life.

One of the most traumatic periods for me happened during high school after my ex-boyfriend committed armed robbery. Somehow, despite having absolutely nothing to do with it, people created narratives that blamed me for his actions. Rumors spread that he committed the crime for me — to buy me things, help with my mom’s medical bills, fund a lifestyle that never existed.

And when you’re young, people don’t always stop to ask what’s true before deciding who you are.

I learned very early how quickly people can mischaracterize you and how isolating it feels to have your name attached to something you never asked for.

Then came another painful chapter — my experience as a Dancing Doll.

What should have been sisterhood became one of the most emotionally difficult experiences I’d ever endured. I experienced hazing, intentional isolation, and treatment that made me feel singled out compared to the girls who came in with me.

And when things like that happen repeatedly, it changes you.

Not necessarily into a weak person — if anything, I became stronger — but there’s a heaviness that comes with constantly feeling misunderstood while also trying to remain resilient.

That’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

Sometimes survival looks like functioning. Sometimes survival looks like smiling. Sometimes survival looks like becoming “the strong friend” because nobody realizes how tired you actually are.

Why I Speak Up for People

Those experiences shaped the way I move through the world now.

They’re why I naturally gravitate toward vulnerable communities. Why I speak up when things feel wrong. Why I care deeply about inclusion, accountability, and compassion.

Not because I’ve always gotten everything right — I definitely haven’t — but because I know firsthand what it feels like when people refuse to extend understanding to you.

And I think that’s also why I love butterflies so much.

I’ve always been obsessed with them because to me, they represent evolution. Change. Transformation. The ability to become something new without being ashamed of who you used to be.

People treat changing your mind, growing, healing, or evolving like weakness sometimes. I see it as courage.

The Plot Twist: I Thought I Missed My Chance

After Cheslie passed, I remember looking up Miss USA and learning there was an age limit.

I was 28 at the time.

And I remember feeling this immediate disappointment because society already makes women feel like life expires at a certain age. Especially if you’re unmarried, still figuring things out, still evolving, still becoming.

Meanwhile, I was just beginning to feel the most like myself.

I felt young. Hopeful. More confident. More relatable. More grounded. More woman than I had ever felt before.

But because of the age restriction, I immediately gave up on the idea of pageantry.

Then the age limits changed.

And I can’t even explain what that felt like except to say: it felt like a door reopening.

Not just for me — but for women who took unconventional paths. Women who don’t fit the “traditional pageant girl” mold. Women who are still becoming.

That change made me realize pageantry could be bigger than appearance. It could be advocacy. Representation. Healing. Visibility. Service.

A platform.

Why This Matters to Me

I didn’t enter pageantry because I think life is perfect.

I entered because I know what it feels like to struggle silently while still appearing “fine.” I know what it feels like to be judged before people know your story. And I know how powerful it can be when someone chooses compassion instead of assumption.

That’s why I care so deeply about awareness, access, and action for vulnerable communities.

And that’s why winning matters to me too.

Not just because of the title, but because of the reach. The responsibility. The ability to create real conversations and real impact for people who often feel invisible.

I may not be the traditional pageant girl.

But maybe that’s exactly the point.