You Do Not Need a Crown

By Christa Steiner

The road to Miss Connecticut was far from glamorous. It was the culmination of a life's work, in and out of pageantry.

I grew up just outside of Atlantic City, in the land of Miss America. My parents are theatre producers who produced shows in the casinos, so my early years came wrapped in glitz: showgirls, bright lights, and of course, Miss America. I always wanted to be glamorous. There was such strength in watching someone stand onstage as exactly who they were, and such power, too.

I was an awkward, tall, lanky child, and I stuck out like a sore thumb. Discovering I was gay only sharpened the feeling of being an outsider. At seven years old, confiding in my best friend felt safe. However, she did not understand what being gay meant, and out of fear, she handed my secret to the entire school. I was made to feel at that moment that who I was wasn't okay, and pieces of me would have to stay hidden in order to be successful in this world.

Acceptance never came back at school. I kept looking for a place that would welcome me, a community I could belong to. Performing in music and theatre helped to cultivate that sense of community. However, I didn’t feel fully embraced as a person, and I searched for something larger.

Then came Miss America.

Finding a community

I was sixteen and aching to belong when Mallory Hagan's interviews came across my television screen. Growing up in and around Atlantic City had never once put me in contact with the Miss America Organization beyond the spectator's seat.
My mother had a rule. You do not get to have an opinion about something unless you have seen it or done it. I wanted an opinion about Miss America, so I signed up for a local competition.

What I found was an incredible community of women spanning generations, all of them committed to empowering one another and to showing young girls that hard work and dedication could carry them anywhere they wanted to go.From there, I was invested and wanted to build myself in this program and become a state titleholder who embodied those values.

Then life happened. 

Senior year of college demanded attention, and so did paying the bills. COVID struck during the tenure of my 2020 local title, and competitions were suspended seemingly indefinitely. My own life took a turn at the same time. I stepped back from the organization to find out who Christa was. Goodbye was never the intention. It was a "see you later."

That "see you later" stretched into a seven-year discovery journey. I traveled from New York to Philadelphia, and Philadelphia to Toronto. I held several positions in several fields, and my heart was broken more than once. At the end of that stretch came an inpatient facility, a diagnosis of Bipolar I Disorder, and a need to become sober.

Those seven years, and truly my entire teenage and young adult life, had been one long search for the source of my pain. When I finally received my diagnosis, a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Finally there was an answer, and a set of steps that could actually improve my health. I spent the first year of recovery learning everything I could about my conditions, and the second relearning how to live in the world with a new perspective.

Once stability arrived, I knew my next step: make this path easier for the people coming behind me.

Resources for mental health and recovery are not as widespread as they should be, and they are certainly not accessible. Information is difficult to come by. Cost and location are only two of the many barriers. I had the privilege of an education and a family willing to advocate for me and fund my recovery, while most people do not. Even with extensive resources at my disposal, bipolar disorder and addiction are no joke. These are hard conditions to live with. If recovery was this difficult for me, how much harder is it for someone with far less access to care?

That question became my cause. What could I do that would help close this gap? My immediate thought was: "Miss America."

The Miss America Organization is the most accessible opportunity for young women in this country to advocate for the causes that matter to them. I knew that if I poured myself into this organization and into my advocacy, Miss America could help me make a real impact in my state, and hopefully in the country.

Coming home to Connecticut

I have lived in Connecticut since November of 2023, and I have been in the entertainment industry for most of my life. My mother is a stage manager, my father a three-time Broadway veteran, and now they are both theatre producers. Becoming a musician and a performer was destiny.

Stepping back onstage right after my diagnosis, though, was out of the question. I needed more time to recover before I could cross that bridge. I had taken classes in theatrical hair and makeup in college with Broadway's J. Jared Janas, currently the hair and makeup supervisor for Wicked. Working with wigs came naturally to me, and seemed a good stepping stone to get back to work in the theatre. My call went something like this: "I need help. I need a job." Amazing and gracious as he is, Jared connected me with the Goodspeed Opera House in East Haddam, Connecticut. My first show was Dreamgirls. As a fan of Michael Bennett, I was thrilled.

East Haddam turned out to be an incredible small-town community of folks that made me feel welcomed and cared for. I fell in love with the community, and the semi-rural atmosphere. It turns out I was made to live among the cows and the trees. The peace was instant. I finally felt like I was home.

Showing up as myself

Living here made Miss Connecticut the title to pursue, and our incredible board welcomed me right away. Earlier in my pageant journey, the advice had been to change who I was in order to be successful. Wear certain colors. Do not get tattoos. And certainly do not tell people you are a lesbian.

My very first conversation was with board member and forever Miss Connecticut Jillian Duffy, who heard those experiences and instantly refuted every one of them. Here in Connecticut, they wanted me to show up as me. Individuality and authenticity, as it turns out, are strengths.

I also knew that my year as Miss Constitution State would be built on radical honesty about my recovery. I had to be upfront about who I am and how I move through the world. That year belonged to people and to the connections worth making. A keynote at the Join Rise Be Youth Leadership Conference. A run of events and performances with Prism Counseling. A press conference with Governor Ned Lamont on mental health parity and equity.

By the time I reached the Miss Connecticut stage, I felt like I had already won. People here have seen that significant adversity does not have to be the end of the story, and that you can hand your lived experience forward so the next person receives the gifts you were given.

What I want you to take from this

I am humbled that the judges saw that in me and awarded me this platform to continue the work. But one thing deserves to be said plainly: you do not need a crown to make a difference.

The unsung heroes have made the most difference in my life. They are the ones who show up every single day with an open ear and an open heart, who pick up the phone and have coffee with me. I've learned the importance of service, and that it helps to keep me sober. Doing this work as Miss Connecticut is a gift. Getting to do it every day for the rest of my life is the bigger one.

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Photo by Jessielyn Palumbo

Christa Steiner is the current Miss Connecticut. You can follow her on her Instagram. You should also visit her website.

This is her first guest blog for Section 36 Forevers. 

Mind Over Movement: Where Strength Begins

By Isabella Iannuzzi

My name is Isabella Iannuzzi, and I am honored to serve as Miss Greenville County. As a professional ballerina and the founder of Mind Over Movement, I am passionate about empowering young athletes and artists to prioritize their mental health, build confidence, and discover that true strength begins in the mind.

There was a time when my body knew exactly what to do—but my mind didn’t trust it.

As a dancer, that disconnect is devastating.

Like many athletes and artists, I grew up in environments shaped by high expectations, comparison, and pressure to be perfect. Over time, those external voices became my own, and confidence slowly turned into self-doubt.

One of the clearest moments this surfaced was when I developed a mental block in my dancing. I had performed turns effortlessly for years, yet suddenly, I couldn’t. The issue wasn’t physical—it was mental. That experience taught me something I will never forget: mental health is not separate from performance—it is the foundation of it.

That realization led me to create Mind Over Movement.

Through this initiative, I support the mental health of young athletes and artists—because so many are struggling silently.

 

Through school and dance studio visits, I combine dance with interactive activities that spark conversations around confidence, anxiety, and self-worth. In my weekly teaching, I also create space for dancers to openly share their experiences, helping normalize conversations around mental health.

And in those moments, something powerful happens—they realize they’re not alone.

Looking ahead, I am committed to expanding this work through community workshops, school programs, and accessible resources. I plan to pursue mindset certification to better support those navigating performance pressure, anxiety, and burnout.

Studies show that over 35% of elite athletes experience anxiety or depression, and high-profile figures like Simone Biles, Alysa Liu, and Naomi Osaka have publicly shared how mindset challenges nearly ended their careers. These stories matter—not because they are famous, but because they validate what so many young performers are feeling in silence.

Because Mind Over Movement is not just about awareness—it’s about action.

At its core, this initiative is about helping young people understand that their minds are not obstacles, but powerful allies.

When we change the way we think, we change the way we move.

And when we change the way we move, we change the way we live.

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Isabella Iannuzzi is the current Miss Greenville County (SC). You can follow her on Instagram. 

This is her first guest blog for Section 36 Forevers.

I AM: Turning Loss into Purpose and Giving Others a Reason to Stay

By Anistacia Aragon

On January 8th, 2020, I lost one of my close friends and classmates to suicide, and my life has never been the same. 

Suicide is, unfortunately, a common cause of death—but not a common topic of conversation. Globally, more than 700,000 people die by suicide each year, which is roughly one person every 40 to 45 seconds. These are not just numbers—they are people, families, and communities forever changed. 

After Tyler’s passing, my grief quickly turned into something even heavier. Because I was the last person to text him, I experienced intense cyberbullying. I was blamed for his death and called things no one—especially a 15-year-old girl—should ever have to hear. I remember sitting in my room, staring at my phone, watching message after message come in—each one more hurtful than the last—feeling like the world had already decided who I was, and that I didn’t deserve to be here. 

At the same time, the world shut down due to COVID-19, and isolation only amplified the pain. The bullying was constant, and I felt completely alone. My mental health reached its lowest point, and over the course of five months, I attempted to take my own life three times. 

After my final attempt in July of 2020, I made the most important decision of my life—to reach out for help. It wasn’t easy. It didn’t fix everything overnight. But it was the first step toward choosing to stay. Opening up to my loved ones didn’t erase the pain, but it reminded me that I wasn’t alone—and that my story wasn’t over. 

When I returned to school that August, I made a choice: I would no longer be reactive to what happened to me—I would be proactive in creating change. 

My Community Service Initiative, “I AM,” originally began with something simple—going into classrooms and talking about kindness. But over time, it has grown into something much greater. 

In 2023, I produced a fashion show for suicide awareness and prevention, raising over $4,000 that was donated to local suicide prevention programs in New Mexico. The show brought together 150 models and 21 designers, and more than 80% of participants had either struggled with their mental health, experienced suicidal ideation, or lost someone to suicide. It became more than an event—it became a space for healing, storytelling, and community. After one presentation, a student came up to me and said, “I didn’t think anyone understood how I felt until today.” That moment reminded me exactly why this work matters. 

Since then, my program has expanded to serve students of all ages. I now present in grades K–12, covering topics such as self-love, positive self-talk, healthy coping mechanisms, mental health awareness, and cultural appreciation. Over the past six years, I’ve had the opportunity to speak in over 100 classrooms across New Mexico. 

The newest branch of my initiative is “Raíces y Resiliencia,” which focuses on helping individuals find peace through dance. As a Ballet Folklórico dancer since the age of two, and a teacher for the past four years, I wanted to create a program that could offer others the same healing outlet that dance gave me. This past year, I founded a Folklórico group in Las Cruces, offering low-cost classes and creating an accessible space for self-expression. The program has since expanded into school outreach through after-school programs, community workshops, and performances, ensuring that culture, movement, and healing are available to all. 

Everything I do today is rooted in where I started—January 8th, 2020. In loss. In confusion. In a version of myself that didn’t think she would make it through. 

But I did. 

And because I did, I made a promise to turn my pain into purpose. 

What began as a young girl walking into classrooms to talk about kindness has grown into something far greater than I ever imagined. Through “I AM” and its newest branch, “Raíces y Resiliencia,” I’ve been able to create spaces where people feel seen, heard, and valued—whether that’s in a classroom, on a stage, or through the movement of dance. 

From producing a fashion show that gave a voice to over 150 individuals, to speaking in more than 100 classrooms, to building a community through Folklórico in Las Cruces—every step of this journey has been about one thing: making sure no one feels alone in their struggles. 

Because I know what it feels like to be that 15-year-old girl—grieving, blamed, isolated, and searching for a reason to stay. 
So this is bigger than a title. Bigger than a crown. Bigger than a competition. 

This is about changing the narrative. 

It’s about teaching the next generation that kindness is not optional, that mental health matters, and that healing is possible. It’s about reminding people that their story is not over—even when it feels like it is. Because the truth is, suicide doesn’t just take lives—it leaves behind silence, stigma, and unanswered questions. And the only way we break that cycle is by choosing to talk about it, openly and compassionately. 

If my journey has taught me anything, it’s this: we don’t have to wait for change—we can become it. 

And I will continue to use my voice, my platform, and my passion to ensure that no one ever feels like they have to fight their battles alone.

Because someone out there is still searching for a reason to stay—and together, we can be that reason.

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Anistacia Aragon is the current Miss Three Crosses (NM). You can follow her on Instagram. And you can also follow her CSI: I AM.

This is her first guest blog for Section 36 Forevers.

The Stage Where I Couldn’t Breathe

By Caitlyn McTier

“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

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Caitlyn McTier is the current Miss Manhattan (NY). You can follow her on her Instagram.

This is her first guest blog for Section 36 Forevers.