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 For she has now been replaced by another person: Elizabeth Regina.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.
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