Pageants are already ridiculous and sad, I think.

Casey Wilson, with her sharp wit and unflinching honesty, once remarked: “Pageants are already ridiculous and sad, I think.” At first, her words may strike like satire, but within them lies a profound commentary on the fragile nature of human pride and the illusions we so often create. For what are pageants but spectacles of glitter and crowns, where worth is measured by beauty, performance, and outward perfection—while the deeper essence of the soul is overlooked? Wilson’s lament is not merely about the event, but about the sorrow that lies hidden beneath the sequins: the yearning for approval, the reduction of human dignity into performance, and the loneliness that follows once the lights fade.

The origin of such contests can be traced back to the ancient world, when festivals and games were held to honor gods or rulers. The Greeks exalted strength and beauty at Olympia, and Rome paraded its citizens in triumph. Yet, even then, voices warned of the vanity in such spectacles. In modern times, pageants rose not as sacred ritual, but as commerce and entertainment, placing women and sometimes men in the glare of judgment, demanding that they conform to a fleeting ideal of beauty. Wilson’s words reveal the truth that beneath the shine lies something sad: the neglect of inner worth for the sake of applause.

Consider the tragic story of JonBenét Ramsey, the child beauty queen whose life was consumed by the world of pageantry. Though celebrated in public, her life ended in mystery and sorrow, her image forever tied to the contradiction Wilson names—spectacle on the surface, grief beneath. Her story haunts us with the knowledge that pageants, while outwardly playful and glittering, may often mask pressures, exploitation, and profound sadness.

History also offers the example of Marie Antoinette, adorned in jewels and gowns, paraded before her people as the symbol of elegance and beauty. Yet behind her public image lay a tragic fate: the scorn of the masses, the loneliness of isolation, and finally, the blade of revolution. Though not a pageant in the modern sense, her life was itself a pageant of appearances—and its collapse revealed how hollow such staged splendor can be.

The deeper meaning of Wilson’s words is this: when human beings place too much emphasis on external judgment, they create cages of vanity. The ridiculousness she names comes from the absurdity of adults applauding crowns placed upon heads as if they hold eternal value. The sadness comes from the toll on the human heart, which longs not for trophies, but for love, dignity, and belonging. To chase crowns of rhinestones while neglecting the crown of character is to trade eternal worth for fleeting applause.

The lesson for us is clear: do not let yourself become a contestant in life’s pageant, where worth is judged by shallow measures. Your true beauty lies not in the approval of crowds, nor in the sparkle of gowns or medals, but in the depth of your soul and the goodness of your deeds. Let your heart shine brighter than sequins, let your compassion weigh more than trophies, and let your courage carry you further than applause ever could.

Practical wisdom follows: the next time you are tempted to measure yourself by appearances, pause and remember Wilson’s truth. Ask yourself instead: what will endure after the curtain falls? Build your life on what cannot be stripped away—on kindness, wisdom, humility, and strength. Encourage others to see beyond surface measures, lifting them up not for how they look, but for who they are.

Thus Casey Wilson’s words stand not merely as humor, but as a teaching for generations: “Pageants are already ridiculous and sad, I think.” They remind us that life’s true crown is invisible, resting on the soul, and that the only applause worth seeking is the silent applause of a conscience at peace. Let us then abandon the ridiculous chase for fleeting crowns and instead adorn ourselves with the eternal jewels of virtue, compassion, and truth.