Not Our Beauty Queen: The Ballad of Jenna – Where Are You, Jenna?!

“Jenna, where the hell are you?! How many times do I have to call? If that article isn’t on my desk by Monday, you can forget about coming back!”

The shrill voice of my editor, Carl, bounced off the walls of my car, echoing through the Bluetooth speakers. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles shone white in the gray light of an October afternoon. Rain streaked the windshield, and I could barely see the red brake lights ahead. My phone vibrated again—this time, it was Mom.

I slammed my foot on the brake, the car skidded, tires shrieked against the wet asphalt, and for a split second, the world stood still. I tasted copper, fear, and something else I couldn’t name. The rain hammered down, drumming harder and harder, like my heart pounding in my chest.

“Dammit, Jenna,” I muttered, shoving my phone away. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”

A horn blared behind me. I flinched, and the car jerked forward. My hands trembled. I pulled off to the side of the road, breathing hard. The city lights blurred through my tears, and I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel.

Maybe this was it—the moment everything finally collapsed. I was thirty-one, stuck in a job I hated, writing articles about “local beauties” and charity galas for a magazine that didn’t care what I thought, only how I looked. Mom called every other day to remind me that my cousin Hailey had just gotten engaged, that Aunt Claire was expecting another grandchild, that “pretty girls like you should really try to settle down.”

“You’re not getting any younger, Jenna.”

As if I didn’t know. As if it wasn’t enough that Carl dangled my job over my head every week, or that Dad only called when he needed tech support for his phone, or that my own reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger. I wasn’t the beauty queen, the perfect daughter, the rising star. I was just… Jenna. And apparently, that was never enough.

Another call. This time, I answered, voice flat. “Hey, Mom.”

“Jenna, honey! Are you coming to Hailey’s bridal shower this weekend? You know, everyone would love to see you. Maybe you’ll meet someone nice.”

“I have a deadline, Mom. Work’s been—”

“Still? Sweetie, you work too much. Maybe your boss would understand if you just took a little time for yourself.”

I bit my lip so hard I thought it might bleed. “I don’t think Carl understands anything except circulation numbers.”

“Well, you know what I always say, darling: Smile more, worry less. Maybe try a little lipstick. You’ll feel better.”

I hung up before I could say something I’d regret.

Rainwater pooled at my feet as I stepped out of the car. The city smelled of gasoline and old leaves. I walked, nowhere in particular, just moving to keep from falling apart. My phone buzzed. A text from Hailey: “Hope you’re coming Saturday! We miss you! Xoxo.”

Did they? Did anyone actually miss me, or just the version of me they thought I should be?

I wandered into a tiny coffee shop, the kind with mismatched mugs and indie music playing softly. The warmth hit me like a wave. The barista, a girl with purple hair and a nose ring, smiled without expectation. I ordered black coffee and sat by the window, watching the world blur by.

“Rough day?” She set the mug in front of me.

I considered lying, but something about her eyes told me I didn’t need to. “Yeah. You could say that.”

She nodded, like she understood. “My mom says I should’ve gone to law school. Instead, I make coffee and write bad poetry. But you know what? At least I’m not miserable.”

Her words made my throat tighten. I wanted to ask her how she did it—how she shrugged off the voices, the expectations, the constant barrage of “not enough.”

Instead, I sipped my coffee, staring at my reflection in the window. I didn’t look like a beauty queen. My hair was a mess, my makeup smeared, circles under my eyes like bruises. But for the first time all day, I felt almost real.

I pulled out my laptop and opened a blank document. The cursor blinked, impatient. I typed:

“Not Our Beauty Queen: A Ballad of the Unremarkable.”

I didn’t write the article Carl wanted. I wrote about the pressure to be perfect—the relentless parade of bridal showers, baby photos, and job promotions. I wrote about the feeling of sitting at the edge of your own life, screaming into a void that never answers. I wrote about the barista and her purple hair, about the way she smiled without asking anything from me. I wrote about the rain and the city and the way my hands shook.

I poured everything onto the page. My anger, my exhaustion, my longing to be seen, really seen, for who I was—not who I was supposed to be.

Hours passed. The coffee shop emptied, the rain slowed. I sent the piece to Carl, not caring if it got me fired. Maybe that was what courage looked like—telling the truth, even if nobody wanted to hear it.

When I got home, the apartment was dark. I let the silence settle around me, heavy but not suffocating. My phone beeped—a new email. Carl. My stomach clenched.

“Jenna. Call me. Now.”

I almost didn’t. But I dialed anyway.

He picked up on the first ring. “Jenna… this is the best thing you’ve ever written. We’re running it on the cover.”

I laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. You should write more like this.”

I hung up, staring at my reflection in the microwave door. For the first time in years, I saw myself. Not the beauty queen, not the disappointment—just Jenna. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

So tell me—why do we spend so much time trying to be someone we’re not? What would happen if we finally let ourselves be seen?