I Started Losing My Hair at 12—Now I'm a Bald Beauty Queen

Sitting in math class, I ran my fingers through my dark hair, when I felt a bare patch of skin. When I got home, I ran to my mom in tears. She took me to a dermatologist who prescribed steroid injections. That was the first time I heard the words, "Alopecia areata." I was 12, but, back then, it felt manageable—I could easily hide the small bald patches with my thick, dark hair.

At the time, unnoticeable hair loss felt like the least of my worries. I had suffered every skin condition under the sun—eczema, impetigo, MRSA on my eye, and severe acne.

"Zitzilla," a classmate once taunted me, and it still haunts me.

I had lived a carefree childhood, but entering seventh grade was the first time I felt ugly. I didn't want to leave the house. I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and spent years trying to be invisible. Even after the physical scars healed, I was left with emotional ones.

Fast forward a decade—I was preparing to get married, had just moved out of my family home, started a new job, and then came down with COVID.

It was September 2022 when I noticed my hair starting to fall out. But this time, it wasn't just a patch here or there. My long hair was coming out in clumps. I'd wake up next to my husband and see a dark blanket of hair on the pillow. I vacuumed constantly, to the point the vacuum nearly broke. Combing and washing my hair became anxiety-inducing—I dreaded seeing how much I'd lose.

Because I had so much hair, I convinced myself I could cover the bald spots. I didn't go to the doctor for a while—I was in denial. I thought it would grow back like it always had. But, eventually, with my husband's encouragement, I saw a doctor. I was prescribed prednisone, an oral steroid, along with two topical treatments.

That was when I had to face it. I had to stand in front of the mirror and apply medication to my head three times a day. I could no longer ignore what was happening. I saw the hair loss progressing—fast.

It's hard to put into words how painful it was. I reached a very dark place. At times, I wasn't sure I wanted to go on. People say, "It's just hair," but to me, it was a huge part of who I was. I just wanted to hold on to every strand.

One in 50 people have alopecia. It is an autoimmune disease where your body attacks healthy hair follicles. It is unknown what exactly causes it, but stress can be a significant trigger. I felt so alone.

By May 2023, I hit rock bottom. It felt like this giant secret I couldn't speak about. My friendships started to drift as I isolated myself. I was constantly thinking about it—how could I work out or go for a run without tying my hair up? What if it was windy outside? Hiding became my full-time job.

The turning point came when I found out I was pregnant. I had been on treatment for just over a month, but I had to stop after learning I was expecting. That's when my mindset shifted—I started thinking about the legacy I wanted to leave for my daughter. I wanted her to have photos of me during pregnancy where I was smiling. I wanted to heal, for her.

Physically, my symptoms got worse. But, emotionally, I started to get better. A week before my baby shower, I decided it was time to shave my head. My husband, Kainoa, 28, my dad, Nelson, and I did it together. I felt so free. It was the peak of acceptance.

I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl on April 22, 2024, and I was more motivated than ever to be a strong role model for her.

That August, aged 24, I started my Instagram page @thebald_mom to share my story and connect with others going through hair loss or chronic illness.

I made a promise to myself that I'd face my fears and be open about my condition. I searched for pageant applications, and although there weren't any open at the time, I kept checking. Then, in November, I saw an ad for Miss New Jersey USA, and it felt like a sign.

After a lengthy application process, I was accepted. The pageant took place the weekend of April 4, 2025. Of course, I had doubts. Should I do this? Should I wear a wig? But I knew I wanted to show up as my authentic self, with a bald head—no matter how uncomfortable that might be.

I got to work—practicing my walk around my work schedule as a care navigator at a mental-health clinic, planning outfits, and prepping for interviews.

When the weekend arrived, I had my private interview first. Five judges sat in front of me. They asked me about my proudest accomplishment—I said becoming a mom and explained my reason for being there. Then they asked for three words to describe myself, and, finally, why my focus was on chronic illness. I blacked out on the details but left feeling proud of what I shared.

Then I got my sash—"Grand Street," my first childhood home—and my number, 87, which was also the number of my second home. It felt meaningful.

Rehearsals began immediately for the main show on Saturday. The show started at 5:30 p.m., and it somehow took me three hours to get ready—despite not having any hair! I did my own makeup as a therapeutic way of preparing for the stage.

Before alopecia, I loved performing—I sang, I was in choirs. But this was my first time on stage as the new me; my debut.

We kicked things off with an opening dance, followed by fun introductions. Then came the swimsuit round. I wore a more-modest green suit with shell-shaped cups and a skirt. I knew I didn't exactly "fit in," but I embraced that. I felt like I was owning my identity.

On stage, I made it a point to connect. I scanned the judges, looked each one in the eyes, silently saying "hello," trying to read the color of their eyes.

Then came the evening-gown round. I wore a floor-length green glitzy dress that I absolutely loved.

After that, all the contestants returned to the stage for one final look before they announced the top 18.

I felt confident—I really believed I'd make it. And when they called out my name: 16th—I was overwhelmed with joy. It felt surreal. I thanked God.

Before I could fully process, I was handed a new number—15—and swept away into a sea of squeals for outfit changes.

This time, I had solo stage time. I asked my dad to bring baby powder because my feet kept slipping in my swimsuit shoes, but, once I fixed that, I felt even more confident in my walk.

Then came the final evening-gown round—and the announcement of the top five. I was hoping to hear my name, but it wasn't called.

For a moment, I was disappointed. But then came a wave of relief and pride—I couldn't believe how far I'd come. I felt incredible. I cheered on the finalists with the other women, with whom I have become super close with.

Ivy Harrington won the crown, and she deserved it—she'd been competing for over six years.

I may not have won the title, but I left feeling like a winner. I'm so proud of myself and grateful I had this experience.

So many people came up to me afterward. Some whispered, "I wear a wig, too," or "I'm just like you." It made me realize why I embarked on this journey.

Am I a pageant girl now? I think I might be. I'm already dreaming about doing it again.

With alopecia, there is always the chance of spontaneous regrowth. What if my hair just came back?

But, honestly, I can't even imagine that. Because this—who I am right now—feels like me.

At the start of this journey, I would've done anything to get my hair back. Now, I see so clearly: I am confident, comfortable, and ready for whatever life throws at me next.