I Didn’t Even Make Top 12

I Didn’t Even Make Top 12

“And we have a tie!” the former Mrs. America said from her podium. “Instead of 12 semi-finalists, we will have 13!”

I let out a sigh of relief. See, I knew I was going to win this pageant. Only a few moments before, rushing up the stairs to prepare for the announcement, I’d said to myself, “Girl, you are actually going to win this thing!” I was giddy. Childlike.

“And the 13th semi-finalist is… Mrs. Colin County, Brittany L.!”

Brittany, now a friend, went forward in her red mermaid-style ball gown that her mother had to hem last minute because it was too long. As she did, the little-girl hope in me was replaced with an adult-sized realization that I was not actually going to win this thing.

My hands started clapping and my lips spread into a giant smile, but inside my solar plexus went ice cold. I stared out into an audience I couldn’t see, both because of the bright stage lights and because most of my supporting audience was back home watching the livestream. As the black velvet curtains started to close, so did the light on my dream of being Mrs. Texas America.

A year ago, I didn’t even know about pageants. I didn’t want this dream. This was a God-sized dream. He pushed me toward it. Made it so very obvious that this was the way. I was a roller derby queen, not a beauty queen. I was sustainable vintage clothing, not a brand-new rhinestone-encrusted gown. I was an ex-heroin addict, not exactly stage couth. But nonetheless, God called, and I answered.

The cheering for the semi-finalists wasn’t louder than the wailing of my heart, but I couldn’t cry. I had $400 worth of professional makeup on. I still had to do the “parade of losers,” as I like to call it, when all the non-semi-finalists walked the stage in their gowns one last time. This was only done so that the semi-finalists had time to change into their swimwear.

In the darkness, we all stood, waiting to be told what to do, all a little shell-shocked. And I heard the whisper.

Don’t worry. This is your in-between.

My own sixth-grade art contest story came back to teach me yet again. 

Hadn’t I just shared this story at my recent fundraising event where over 80 people attended, and I raised $1,500 in raffle tickets to pay for all my pageant expenses? God knows we couldn’t afford this very expensive hobby. When I told it to my friends and family, I just knew I was destined to win and that I was finally on my way to my grand prize… but yet, here I stood. Feeling like I was still an in-betweener. An almost girl.

Almost making it. Never quite there.

The celestial voice echoed in defiance. Not almost. Just not yet.

The words were salve, a balm meant for healing and pain relief. The words rang true but not enough to take away all the sting.

Downstairs, the mood was somber. Most were quiet. Some were crying. A vocal few were loud and angry. My phone immediately started to ping.

“Mommy! We love you.”

“It’s okay, Mommy! You did your best.”

“You are so beautiful,” my husband reassured me.

“Are you okay?” my sister Natalie asked.

“We love you no matter what.”

I had to put the phone away.

Can’t cry. Makeup. Can’t cry. 

Slip on your overpriced gown that you put on the credit card even though you already bought another $300 gown before that. Cannot believe I spent $70 on these earrings (they actually are some of my favorite earrings now). But what was $70 when you were already spending $1,000?

“Upstairs, girls!” the coordinator yelled.

Slipping on my 6-inch heels, I carefully grasped the handlebars going up the dark staircase to commence the snake-like pattern, following the girl in front of me who also was smiling, yet dying inside.

Claps. Cheers. We love you’s. The audience members, mostly made up of family, seemed to be trying to clap hard enough as if that would slap away the pain we all were feeling.

I wish it worked.

The next 30 minutes were mostly us watching the tiny tube TV that hung in the corner of the tiny basement of the Corsicana Palace Theater. We watched the semi-finalists on stage in their bright orange swimsuits and then saw them seconds later, beaming ear-to-ear with elation that they had made it past the first cut, as they rushed downstairs to put on their evening gowns. Some stopped to hug friends who hadn’t made it and gave an encouraging word. No one expected or wanted to lose.

Looking back, I know so much more than I knew that night. But there are some things only time explains. Some things that can’t make sense without walking through them. I try to think what I would say to that 42-year-old mom of seven dressed in white. She wanted to win so bad, she thought that was the point.

By the time it was intermission, I was mostly okay. Until I saw my family.

“Mommy, when do we get to see you walk?” my 5-year-old asked.

My blood went cold again. I was so arrogant. Because of our financial situation, I didn’t want to waste money buying tickets for both prelims and finals night. With eight people in my family (excluding me), that would have been an extra $400. I was so sure I would advance to finals that I decided to only purchase the $50-per-person ticket for the final show. Boy, that was a mistake. Guilt rushed over me. I was so full of myself that I robbed my children of watching their mama walk on stage. The stab of that fact drove deep inside and twisted the knife almost to the point of breaking me.

I’ve been a fool. I put so much emphasis on winning this stupid pageant, I forgot what was really important. I gave my son a big squeeze, and we went to the lobby where all the girls were either being consoled or congratulated by family and friends.

Everyone was trying to take happy photos in front of the large banner emblazoned with the words Texas America Pageant to commemorate the moment. I hate those photos. I’m not even looking at the same camera as my family. Every time I look at them, all I remember is the absolute disappointment as I’m surrounded by people who are all wondering if I’m okay as they put on their own fake happy faces.

Actually, I hate all those pictures. I especially hate the photo of me in jeans and a cute orange crop top in my car before I left for the pageant. I had accidentally taken it before shooting a social media video.

My face haunts me.

So happy. So stupidly happy. So blissfully unaware. So hopeful.

Hope hurts sometimes.

After finalists were announced, other ladies came down. It felt a little better remembering that all of us, except one, were actually “losers.” I know we aren’t actually losers, but it felt like that at the moment. One of the girls specifically, who had won three other major pageants, was among those who didn’t make it. Although I would have loved for her to win, her presence downstairs was comforting. In the days after the pageant, her words would console me even more. So much so that I encouraged her to put the audio recording of her advice on social media.

In the days after the pageant, I was numb. The house was a wreck for three weeks. Just like my art contest story. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I didn’t know what kind of grand prize God had in store for me.

But the biggest realization was that just because God calls you… doesn’t mean you’ll win. Just because suddenly you experience a windfall of placing puzzle pieces into the puzzle, doesn’t mean you won’t also suddenly be met with a giant lull in finding the next puzzle piece. Not every part of life will make sense, but that doesn’t mean it’s not God.

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