Three Years Ago, I was Competing at Miss America

Today, I am listening to “Nothing New” and unloading my dishwasher.

Small preface to ease my conscious: My time as Miss West Virginia is incredibly complicated, and one post won’t capture the nuances of all my feelings. Of course, I’m grateful for the opportunity, and I recognize the privileged environment of pageantry. All in all, this small reflection is aligned with my heavy navel-gazing and tendency to brutally dissect each of my lived experiences. Don’t burn me at the stake on my own page. Let me journal publicly in peace.

On this day, December 16, three years ago, I was one of 51 women competing at the 100^th anniversary of the Miss America Competition. Proudly, I was representing my home state of West Virginia. Fresh faced, I was 20 years old and a rookie with only one year in the organization. (To give you a comparative scale, there were women who were 26 and veterans with up to eight years of experience in the Miss division.) My talent was an original monologue, my gown was prodigiously custom, and my service platform was all about the youth of Appalachia.

For nearly three weeks, I was holed up in the Mohegan Sun and strictly escorted from my room to the rehearsal space, to the stage, to the meals, back to my room. I stood on the sidewalk outside the emergency door to breathe in fresh air for five minutes thanks to our very gracious security guard. A giant plus: the meals were incredible (I was pescatarian at the time, too). Every day felt like I was in a sluggish, robotic cycle alongside 50 other robots, walking in tippy-tops through a revolving door of getting ready, waiting, and maybe rehearsing.

There are many reasons why I started competing—to earn scholarship money, to gain a sisterhood, to build on the lifelong crutch of seeking outward validation, to serve my community. But the years that follow my one year as Miss West Virginia are still full of surprises.

The body keeps the score, and my body seems to know three years ago I was blonder, skinnier, and the center of attention. Maybe I’ll be craving accomplishment and praise for the rest of my life, or maybe that’s what drew me to the organization in the first place. What came first: becoming Miss West Virginia or needing strangers to tell me I’m good? It’s a real chicken versus egg situation.

And my cheeks are growing tired
From turning red and faking smiles
Are we only biding time 'til I lose your attention?
And someone else lights up the room?
People love an ingenue

“Nothing New” (Taylor’s Version) - Taylor Swift & Phoebe Bridgers

Of course, there is an exhaustive mental list of everything I would do differently, but then I’m stuck aboard the ship of Theseus. Would it still be the same just better the second time around? Would the essence of me remain? And to be transparent, I don’t know if I have it in me to go back again, writing about it seems like my capacity right now. Ultimately, I wish I would’ve known myself a bit more before pitching myself to the nation.

Today, I am succumbing to the ennui. I laid in bed a bit too long with my dog, went to the gym, did my grocery shopping, looked at old photographs, and listened to Taylor Swift’s “Nothing New.” Now, I am writing this here for you all (my 5 subscribers) to read my big, bleeding heart. Later, I will wrap Christmas gifts and go to yoga class. I will probably cry. Over what? I don’t know. The passage of time maybe. Feeling like a washed-up has-been at 23. (Please don’t lecture me on that.) Trust me, I grieve every past version of myself this dramatically, not just the pageant girl me.

For what it’s worth—I think it’s worth everything—I love my life now, and I loved my life then. My life just looks different now, and I’m trying to let different be neutral. This is part of how I get there.