The Crown Must Always Win: What Queen Mary’s Words Mean to Me

Three years ago today, on September 19, 2022, the state funeral of Queen Elizabeth II was held at Westminster Abbey. It was one of those rare global moments when millions paused to witness the end of an era. With this anniversary, I find myself reflecting not only on her passing but also on the remarkable life of duty she lived.

In remembering that solemn day, I have also been rewatching The Crown, which has become my favorite series. For all its dramatization, it manages to capture something profoundly true about monarchy: the tension between private desire and public duty, between the individual and the institution. I care for it so much that, although I could stream it anytime, I bought the DVDs of the first three seasons. Owning them feels like having a small archive of my own, something lasting and tangible that I can revisit whenever I choose.

In Episode 2, “Hyde Park Corner,” there is a scene that has stayed with me. Elizabeth has just returned from Kenya after the sudden death of her father, King George VI. Aboard the airplane, as she changes into black mourning clothes, she is handed a letter from her grandmother, Queen Mary. In this moment of private grief and public transformation, she reads the following words:

“Dearest Lilibet,
I know how you loved your papa, my son, and I know you will be as devastated as I am by this loss. But you must put those sentiments to one side now, for duty calls. The grief of your father's death will be felt far and wide, your people will need your strength and leadership. I have seen three great monarchies brought down through their failure to separate personal indulgences from duty. You must not allow yourself to make similar mistakes. And while you mourn your father, you must also mourn someone else: Elizabeth Mountbatten. For she has now been replaced by another person: Elizabeth Regina. The two Elizabeths will frequently be in conflict with one another. The fact is…the crown must win. Must ALWAYS win.”

The power of the scene lies in its timing. Elizabeth is literally putting on the garments of mourning and sovereignty while absorbing the truth that her private life could no longer come first. In Mary’s eyes, monarchy was not a role but a complete transformation of identity. Elizabeth the daughter, wife, and sister had to give way to Elizabeth the Queen. To falter in this would not have been a personal failing, but the undoing of the Crown itself.

For me, the lesson is broader than monarchy. None of us may ever wear a crown, but all of us wrestle with the conflict between who we are privately and what life demands of us publicly. Queen Mary’s words, though stern, are a call to endurance, to put responsibility above comfort, to live for something larger than us, and to cultivate discipline when our emotions threaten to overwhelm us.

I do not carry the weight of a nation, but I carry my own obligations, struggles, and hopes. At times, my private self longs for ease or escape, yet my responsibilities demand more of me. Queen Mary’s words remind me that while I may not have a crown, I have duties that require strength, and that meaning in life often comes not from indulgence, but from sacrifice.

Though I have not seen great monarchies brought down in person, I have seen the same pattern in families I know. I have seen relatives prioritize immediate desire over longer-term responsibility. The results included rushed marriages that ended in divorce, children born into unstable situations, financial hardship, legal struggles over custody and support, and emotional pain that rippled through the household. These are human failures, not spectacle, and they hurt people who did not ask for the consequences.

I have had private failures as well. As a college student I procrastinated, took only the classes I liked seriously, and sought attention to fill a feeling of being unloved by my relatives. Those choices cost me. I was placed on academic probation and, with no more money for school, I had to drop out. I was devastated. For a while I felt as if everything that I hoped for had been taken away. I know now that I could have done better. If I had worked harder then, things would have been different.

As I came across this scene, and the letter, I knew that I could not ignore it. This was not only a letter to Elizabeth, but it was also a letter to me. It would have been too easy to dismiss it as mere dramatization, but I knew there was a reason why it caught my attention and lingered in my thoughts. To ignore it would be a mistake.

Applying Queen Mary’s words begins with facing my own responsibilities with greater seriousness. Like Elizabeth, I may feel torn between private desires and public duty, between comfort and discipline. But her letter reminds me that if I let comfort or indulgence take priority, the consequences will not only touch me but also the people around me.

Practically, this means resisting procrastination in my studies or writing so that I can honor my own calling. It means choosing endurance when I feel tempted to withdraw or give up. It means remembering that strength does not come from ease but from perseverance.

I may never wear a crown, but I do wear the invisible weight of responsibility: to live with integrity, to honor the gifts I have been given, and to persevere when it would be easier to give in to discouragement.

When Queen Mary wrote to her granddaughter that “the crown must always win,” she was not simply speaking of monarchy. She was speaking of the eternal struggle between comfort and duty, indulgence and sacrifice, self and service.

For me, that crown is not gold or adorned with jewels. For me, that crown is the life of duty, meaning, and purpose that I want to build. And in my life, just as in Elizabeth’s, the crown must always win.

Honoring Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.: A Pilgrimage on His 137th Birthday

It is past nine o’clock in the evening and I have just returned from another pilgrimage. Though I am tired and a little hungry, I want to chronicle the day’s events while they are still fresh in my mind.

Today marked the 137th birthday of Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., the patriarch of the Kennedy family. 

In his honor, I set out to visit two sites in Brookline, Massachusetts tied to his life and legacy. The day before, a friend of mine from Oregon, whom I first met through Instagram, was married. She shares my interest in Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., often sending me drawings and archival photos of him. To celebrate both her marriage and our friendship, I decided to dedicate my pilgrimage to her as well.

I woke at dawn after only four hours of sleep but fell back asleep again. By the time I rose for the final time it was after eleven. I did not want to leave the comfort of my air-conditioned room, especially with the temperature outside already in the mid-eighties. But I knew I would regret letting the day pass. I ate a large brunch, printed out directions to avoid getting lost on public transportation, and gathered what I would bring: a rain jacket, an umbrella, and three books placed carefully in a tote bag. They were The Ambassador: Joseph P. Kennedy at the Court of St. James’s 1938–1940 by Susan Ronald, Times to Remember by Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy, and The Sins of the Father: Joseph P. Kennedy and the Dynasty He Founded by Ronald Kessler. 

The last of these had been a gift from my Instagram friend, so it felt important to carry it. With my books and a bottle of ice water packed, I set out for Brookline.

My new shoes, which had arrived only the day before, rubbed uncomfortably against my feet as I walked to the bus stop. Still, I pressed on. The bus came a few minutes late, and as we passed a parish where a wedding was about to begin, I thought again of my friend married only yesterday. From there I rode to the subway. It was crowded, and I had to stand until Boston, then transfer to the green line, which was even more crowded. 

For a moment I nearly gave up, tempted to turn back. But I could not let down my friend or the purpose of the day. By the time I reached Kenmore Square, I was weary but determined. I boarded another bus, opened Susan Ronald’s The Ambassador, and read until I nearly missed my stop.

At last, I arrived at Holyhood Cemetery. 

Following a familiar path that I had walked twice before, I came to the Kennedy family plot. Here rest Joseph P. Kennedy, his wife Rose, and several of their grandchildren. 

I photographed each grave carefully. 

Then I placed the books I had brought beside them and took more photos, two on Joseph and Rose, and two in memory of them together. 

On Joseph’s grave I placed two pennies for my Instagram friend and her new husband.

Before leaving, I made a point to visit another grave: that of Kenneth P. O’Donnell, special assistant and appointment secretary to President Kennedy.

I had visited his grave once before, but I did not want him to be forgotten. Next time, I hope to return with Helen O’Donnell’s book A Common Good: The Friendship of Robert F. Kennedy and Kenneth P. O’Donnell and place it there in tribute. After photographing his stone and offering a small salute, I hurried to catch the bus.

Rain clouds gathered as I made my way toward my second destination, the John F. Kennedy National Historic Site at 83 Beals Street. 

From the bus stop I walked quickly, feeling the air grow heavy. I managed to photograph the books in front of the house where Joseph and Rose had lived until 1920, then took several more pictures of the house itself. 

When the first drops began to fall, I pulled out my rain jacket and umbrella, relieved I had prepared.

By evening I found myself at Harvard Square with time to spare before my next bus home. I wandered into the Harvard Coop and discovered J. Randy Taraborrelli’s JFK: Public, Private, Secret. 

I longed to add it to my Kennedy library alongside the five other Taraborrelli books I already own, but I decided to wait until Christmas. Later I stopped briefly at the Harvard Book Store, then returned to the station in time for the bus home.

It was then, as I walked the last few blocks in the rain, that I stumbled on something unexpected: a dollar bill, then a five, a ten, and a twenty, all damp from the storm and scattered on the sidewalk. I hesitated but finally gathered them up. I decided I would use the money to refill my Charlie Card for future travels.

During the day I had thought more than once about turning back. At those moments I asked myself: What did Joe Kennedy Sr. ever do for me? I never knew him. He was not an inspirational figure to me in the way his son, President Kennedy, has been. And yet, indirectly, he gave me something. He gave the nation his children, who became public servants. I have met his last surviving daughter, Jean Kennedy Smith, as well as his grandson Mark Shriver and his great grandson Joseph P. Kennedy III. Meeting them inspired me. And through his legacy, I have found a new friend on Instagram whose encouragement I deeply value. Susan Ronald ends page 350 of The Ambassador with a line from President Kennedy about his father: “He made it all possible.”

Looking back now, I think the pilgrimage was worth the effort. It honored the memory of Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., celebrated a friend’s marriage, and reminded me that sometimes the act of going itself matters more than the destination. And perhaps, in small ways, the day even offered me a gift in return.