Scandal, Sequins, and Sashes: Inside the Riotous Miss Universe 2025

Olivia Bennett, 12/24/2025 Sequins, scandal, and shattered dreams: the 2025 Miss Universe pageant devolved into a spectacle of chaos, favoritism, and PR fiascos—where empowerment took a back seat to egos and sponsorships. Beneath the glitter, the myth wobbles, but a stubborn hope for something better just refuses to die.

Bangkok glittered on opening night, shimmering with unrest almost from the start. Within hours, the expected composure was a myth, foundation ran faster than rehearsed tears, and rhinestone necklaces seemed to tremble as contestants gripped each other for support. Seldom has such poise coexisted with such pure, unfiltered devastation. Picture the scene: velvet chairs, some filled with young women gazing numbly into the middle distance, others left vacant by those who—momentarily—couldn’t take it anymore.

Rattling this fragile world was the pageant’s director, Nawat Itsaragrisil—fondly, or perhaps fearfully, dubbed “Papa Nawat.” He stormed the behind-the-scenes sanctum, bristling with perceived sponsorship failings. At the epicenter: Miss Mexico, Fátima Bosch, called out with all the delicacy of a matador confronting a wayward bull. What followed was a walkout, dramatic enough to splinter the gilded facade and send gossip hurtling through the international press overnight.

Some contestants, notably Ghana’s Andromeda Peters—part queen, part therapist—stepped into the breach, steadying nerves with breathing exercises that were part mediation, part damage control. “Breathe in…hold…exhale.” It played out like a scene more suited to a wellness retreat than the world’s most-watched pageant. Still, the mythos of composure shriveled. Or perhaps it only ever existed in glossy, airbrushed memories.

Miss Armenia, Peggy Garabekian, recounted her all-too-human disappointment with the kind of clarity that slices through spin: “I just did not want to be in that room.” If a crown was meant to be the climax, the pageant had become a battleground before the competition truly began.

And yet, in spite of the tears and turmoil, the show (somehow) slogged on, sprawling across Thailand’s trio of party cities: Bangkok, Phuket, Pattaya. But sleep became little more than urban legend. Contestants survived on brief naps—a smudged mascara badge of honor—some taking to their pillows in full glam to salvage precious prep time. Choreographed poolside shoots followed sleepless nights. Security? If one could find it, it was almost an accident. Miss Canada, Jaime VandenBerg, lamented the lack of protection, her tone a peculiar blend of disbelief and resignation. For an event that’s supposed to define global excellence, basic logistics seemed forever just out of reach.

Sponsorship, once the pageant’s velvet-gloved patron, now dominated center stage. Each queen—emissary or, one might say, exhausted influencer—juggled posts about protein powders, luxury bags, or whatever brand had paid for a moment in the selfie spotlight. Garabekian, again candid, described feeling more like a prop than a participant. The machinery of commerce roared, its gears poorly lubricated by ideals of “empowerment.”

Favoritism simmered without subtlety. Contestants from smaller nations quickly realized the “sash factor” was no charming abstraction, but a ruthless filter, leaving microstates sidelined while heavyweight countries basked in extra press and prime camera angles. “If you haven’t got the numbers online, you might as well be invisible,” remarked Nicole Peiliker-Visser, representing Bonaire.

Then came the voting—a system more convoluted than couture backstage quick-changes. An app, powered by fan payments, let supporters cast votes, though how much sway they held was anyone’s guess. Miss Haiti, Melissa Sapini, told of entire villages scraping together funds to support their queen, only to discover that the system’s rules shifted with the wind. The whispers were ceaseless: rigged, randomized, or simply irrelevant?

And as judging day loomed, the script took another jarring turn. Judges abandoned ship, one allegedly scandalized by whispered “secret votes,” another citing personal reasons. Replacements multiplied suspicions rather than confidence. “I’ve never worked a pageant where the staff grades you,” Peters observed, her experience sharpened by disbelief.

The proceedings then lurched from chaos to tragedy. Miss Jamaica, Gabrielle Henry, fell from the stage during preliminaries, her hospitalization hanging heavy over the closing days. Host Steve Byrne, usually a beacon of high-energy banter, spoke of a “dark cloud” settling over the event—with things getting “worse than worse.” Rarely does a host admit as much; but then, rarely has the spectacle strayed this far from its playbook.

Victory, of course, still found someone. When Fátima Bosch of Mexico received the crown, the response was as frosty as an overzealous air conditioner—boos rather than bravos, suspicion more palpable than perfume. Rumors swirled about behind-the-scenes business ties and a judge’s alleged nudge toward Bosch. Even Raul Rocha, departing president of the organization, offered only sphinx-like commentary, hinting (and not for the first time) that what happened behind doors would never fully reach the footlights.

Yet amid breakdowns and bruises, a reminder: 2025 marked the passing of Iêda Maria Vargas, the first Brazilian Miss Universe, crowned in ’63. Tributes poured in, a bittersweet counterpoint to modern disarray. Her era, it seems, was cloaked in mystique and lasting grace—glamour tightly bound to gravitas.

In truth, the contrast couldn’t be sharper. A pageant that once promised transformation has increasingly become a test of endurance and adaptability, a month-long marathon of managed image and imposed obligations. Miss VandenBerg suggested there’s still something left to salvage—a dream, a sisterhood, a legacy of real impact. Others, like Sapini, couldn’t muster the same hope: “I can’t preach to girls that this is the dream anymore,” she said, her candor echoing across social media with the force of a closing gavel.

And yet…somewhere within the scrapheap of sponsorships and bandaged ankles, an ember persists. Maybe, with new leadership and a little luck, Miss Universe can rediscover a measure of its magic. The world’s watching, restless and wary. And as the final confetti settles, one question lingers above the shattered gloss: Can a crown mean more than simply surviving the spectacle?

It would have been easy, in another year, to slip into the warm, predictable rhythm of sequins, sashes, and that particular brand of over-processed perfection only a global pageant like Miss Universe can conjure. But in 2025, something else bloomed beneath the ballroom lights—something less manageable than tulle, trickier than a triple contour, and far more explosive than any botched Q&A answer.Bangkok glittered on opening night, shimmering with unrest almost from the start. Within hours, the expected composure was a myth, foundation ran faster than rehearsed tears, and rhinestone necklaces seemed to tremble as contestants gripped each other for support. Seldom has such poise coexisted with such pure, unfiltered devastation. Picture the scene: velvet chairs, some filled with young women gazing numbly into the middle distance, others left vacant by those who—momentarily—couldn’t take it anymore.Rattling this fragile world was the pageant’s director, Nawat Itsaragrisil—fondly, or perhaps fearfully, dubbed “Papa Nawat.” He stormed the behind-the-scenes sanctum, bristling with perceived sponsorship failings. At the epicenter: Miss Mexico, Fátima Bosch, called out with all the delicacy of a matador confronting a wayward bull. What followed was a walkout, dramatic enough to splinter the gilded facade and send gossip hurtling through the international press overnight.Some contestants, notably Ghana’s Andromeda Peters—part queen, part therapist—stepped into the breach, steadying nerves with breathing exercises that were part mediation, part damage control. “Breathe in…hold…exhale.” It played out like a scene more suited to a wellness retreat than the world’s most-watched pageant. Still, the mythos of composure shriveled. Or perhaps it only ever existed in glossy, airbrushed memories.Miss Armenia, Peggy Garabekian, recounted her all-too-human disappointment with the kind of clarity that slices through spin: “I just did not want to be in that room.” If a crown was meant to be the climax, the pageant had become a battleground before the competition truly began.And yet, in spite of the tears and turmoil, the show (somehow) slogged on, sprawling across Thailand’s trio of party cities: Bangkok, Phuket, Pattaya. But sleep became little more than urban legend. Contestants survived on brief naps—a smudged mascara badge of honor—some taking to their pillows in full glam to salvage precious prep time. Choreographed poolside shoots followed sleepless nights. Security? If one could find it, it was almost an accident. Miss Canada, Jaime VandenBerg, lamented the lack of protection, her tone a peculiar blend of disbelief and resignation. For an event that’s supposed to define global excellence, basic logistics seemed forever just out of reach.Sponsorship, once the pageant’s velvet-gloved patron, now dominated center stage. Each queen—emissary or, one might say, exhausted influencer—juggled posts about protein powders, luxury bags, or whatever brand had paid for a moment in the selfie spotlight. Garabekian, again candid, described feeling more like a prop than a participant. The machinery of commerce roared, its gears poorly lubricated by ideals of “empowerment.”Favoritism simmered without subtlety. Contestants from smaller nations quickly realized the “sash factor” was no charming abstraction, but a ruthless filter, leaving microstates sidelined while heavyweight countries basked in extra press and prime camera angles. “If you haven’t got the numbers online, you might as well be invisible,” remarked Nicole Peiliker-Visser, representing Bonaire.Then came the voting—a system more convoluted than couture backstage quick-changes. An app, powered by fan payments, let supporters cast votes, though how much sway they held was anyone’s guess. Miss Haiti, Melissa Sapini, told of entire villages scraping together funds to support their queen, only to discover that the system’s rules shifted with the wind. The whispers were ceaseless: rigged, randomized, or simply irrelevant?And as judging day loomed, the script took another jarring turn. Judges abandoned ship, one allegedly scandalized by whispered “secret votes,” another citing personal reasons. Replacements multiplied suspicions rather than confidence. “I’ve never worked a pageant where the staff grades you,” Peters observed, her experience sharpened by disbelief.The proceedings then lurched from chaos to tragedy. Miss Jamaica, Gabrielle Henry, fell from the stage during preliminaries, her hospitalization hanging heavy over the closing days. Host Steve Byrne, usually a beacon of high-energy banter, spoke of a “dark cloud” settling over the event—with things getting “worse than worse.” Rarely does a host admit as much; but then, rarely has the spectacle strayed this far from its playbook.Victory, of course, still found someone. When Fátima Bosch of Mexico received the crown, the response was as frosty as an overzealous air conditioner—boos rather than bravos, suspicion more palpable than perfume. Rumors swirled about behind-the-scenes business ties and a judge’s alleged nudge toward Bosch. Even Raul Rocha, departing president of the organization, offered only sphinx-like commentary, hinting (and not for the first time) that what happened behind doors would never fully reach the footlights.Yet amid breakdowns and bruises, a reminder: 2025 marked the passing of Iêda Maria Vargas, the first Brazilian Miss Universe, crowned in ’63. Tributes poured in, a bittersweet counterpoint to modern disarray. Her era, it seems, was cloaked in mystique and lasting grace—glamour tightly bound to gravitas.In truth, the contrast couldn’t be sharper. A pageant that once promised transformation has increasingly become a test of endurance and adaptability, a month-long marathon of managed image and imposed obligations. Miss VandenBerg suggested there’s still something left to salvage—a dream, a sisterhood, a legacy of real impact. Others, like Sapini, couldn’t muster the same hope: “I can’t preach to girls that this is the dream anymore,” she said, her candor echoing across social media with the force of a closing gavel.And yet…somewhere within the scrapheap of sponsorships and bandaged ankles, an ember persists. Maybe, with new leadership and a little luck, Miss Universe can rediscover a measure of its magic. The world’s watching, restless and wary. And as the final confetti settles, one question lingers above the shattered gloss: Can a crown mean more than simply surviving the spectacle?