I was left speechless. Absolutely blown away.
I was a HUGE fan for her first book Between the Stitching (my review, my affiliate link). So, expectations were high. Probably too high.
Rating: 4 bases...because there are only four to give.
To learn more about Arianna, feel free to check out her Interview with Section 36.
Perspective—it can shift in an instant.
Speed painting is a fascinating art form. Whoever first imagined it must have had a brain worth studying. Seriously—who looks at a blank canvas and thinks, “I’m going to create something meaningful in under 90 seconds, upside down, and in front of an audience”? And yet… here I am, the person who attempts exactly that at every pageant I compete in.
As wild as it sounds, speed painting is more than just a test of skill—it's a demonstration of trust in the process. You’re racing the clock, unsure if the chaotic smears of paint will ever come together. And then, in one dramatic moment, you flip the canvas—and everything falls into place. What looked like a mess suddenly reveals a masterpiece. The collective gasp from the audience always tells me the same thing: the shift in perspective changes everything.
Art has a funny way of mirroring life. Just like a speed painting, life often feels confusing, unformed—like we’re trying to make sense of a chaotic mess with no clear image in sight. We search for clarity, desperate to connect the dots, and feel alone when we can't.
When I was 18, I worked as a lifeguard at a waterpark. On June 25, 2023, I performed CPR on a six-year-old boy who, despite every effort, tragically passed away. The days and nights that followed were heavy with grief and guilt. I kept searching for answers, for a reason, for some kind of picture that could explain the pain. People told me, “Everything happens for a reason.” But that phrase rang hollow. What reason could there be for tragic loss? How could anything good come from something so heartbreaking?
That experience taught me that grief is not something you overcome—it’s something you carry. And without a shift in perspective, it can weigh you down entirely. I couldn’t change the past. I couldn’t undo what happened. But I could flip the canvas.
So I did.
I began visiting classrooms, teaching children about water safety. I partnered with organizations and schools to educate communities. I used social media to amplify the message. I stopped seeing myself as a failure in that moment, and started seeing myself as someone with a purpose—someone who could help prevent another tragedy. I chose to honor that little boy’s memory by ensuring his story could save others. Slowly, the picture started to come together. What once looked like a series of disconnected brushstrokes began to form something bigger. Something meaningful.
Perspective matters. It’s not about erasing the past—like paint on a canvas, some marks are permanent. But it’s about choosing how you see it, and what you do with it. When life feels like an abstract mess of pain and confusion, maybe it’s not that the picture is broken—maybe you just haven’t turned the canvas around yet.
So the next time you're faced with something that seems senseless or impossible, consider this: all hope is not lost. Sometimes, all you need is a shift in perspective.
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“Congratulations to our preliminary winners! We can’t wait to see everyone back here tomorrow when we crown Miss New York 2025.” That was the last phrase I remember before everything went black–or blurry–or honestly, I’m not even sure what. All I know is that my heart was beating out of my chest, and something wasn’t right.
Time started melting together. The next thing I remember, I was collapsing into my mother’s arms during visitation after the final night of preliminary competition. Within minutes, I was ushered to a back room where a kind hostess brought me a hot tea, a cookie, and a comforting hug.
“Oh honey,” she said. “These are all the things I like when I have a panic attack.”
A panic attack.
A panic attack?
Was that what was happening? I had never felt anything like it before.
About 30 minutes passed with just my mom–who I might’ve given her own panic attack just from how emotional I was–until I eventually rejoined the group. I took photos, spoke to little girls, smiled for the cameras. Then somehow, I woke up the next morning and competed in the finals for Miss New York. And big surprise…I lost. But my best friend won. And in that moment, I felt overwhelming joy for her. I also felt the most physically depleted I’d ever been, after a long week battling not just the mental but also a sinus infection.
One of the hardest parts of pageantry is the unspoken expectation to always be “on.” The judges don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. They’re judging what they see in 90 seconds of talent or a 10-minute interview. And that’s their job. But sometimes, no matter how much you prepare, life happens. And I believe in divine timing–sometimes the door doesn’t open because it’s not meant for you.
After Miss New York week, I made appointments with both my physician and my therapist, trying to make sense of what had happened. Turns out, a big contributor was that I had recently gone off a medication that negatively affected my health. On top of that, I was dealing with personal challenges I’d been pushing off with a “deal with it after Miss New York” mindset. I hadn’t listened to my body in the weeks leading up to competition. I was so focused on the goal that I completely neglected my health. That moment made me question if I even wanted to return to pageants at all.
I’m what some might call a Miss America enthusiast. I’ve competed since I was 13 in the teen program, and let’s just say I’m now 26. I’ve never missed watching a Miss America pageant. My mom was a dressing room mom for Miss Alabama throughout my childhood, and I grew up wanting to be just like the pretty girls on stage. I’ve even been around long enough to have competed during the swimsuit era.
So it was hard–really hard–to imagine my pageant journey ending on such a negative note, with no closure. I knew I wanted to come back, but I had to get over my fear of stepping back on the stage where I last couldn’t breathe.
I waited. And waited. Until the very last day to apply for my local title: Miss Manhattan.
But I did it. I applied. And yes, I was still scared.
Spoiler alert: I won the pageant.
To some, it may have looked like just another crown.
To me, it was proof that I had faced a fear head-on–publicly–and refused to let it win.
It’s been almost a year since my first major panic attack. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that mental health doesn’t get fixed overnight.
In the first seven months that followed, I had more minor episodes. Some days, getting out of bed felt impossible. Being the “girl boss” everyone expects me to be? Even harder. I lost friendships–people who didn’t understand what high-functioning anxiety or depression looks like, or who didn’t know how to support someone who isn’t always smiling. That was hard to accept. But I’m also grateful for the people who stayed–my family, my friends–who lifted me up when I was literally on the ground. Who helped me laugh on the days I felt too sad to speak.
I often think about Cheslie Kryst and the pain she must have felt leading up to her death in 2022. Pageants can make us feel like we’re being authentic—but the truth is, many of us are hiding a lot.
I’m writing this because whether I win Miss New York or not, I want to show up authentically. Even though a part of me is scared–scared that a judge might read this and decide I’m unfit for the job–I’m telling my story anyway. Because being a titleholder isn’t just about the next crown. It’s about using your platform to help even one person feel less alone.
“Far too many of us allow ourselves to be measured by a standard that some sternly refuse to challenge and others simply acquiesce to because fitting in and going with the flow is easier than rowing against the current.” – Cheslie Kryst
I would say the best way to start this write up is by using the author’s own words. From the back cover of the book: Beautiful but fragile T...