Isabelle St. Cyr nourishes her ducks, their quacking cutting sharply through the cold Maine air. The 24-year-old, dressed in overalls, strides purposefully between chickens, sheep, and pigs, her long hair tied behind her. This rural existence, centered in Monson village, is her refuge. But in a few weeks, on May 10–11, 2025, Isabelle will trade her farm boots for heels, stepping onto the stage in Portland as the first openly transgender contestant in the Miss Maine USA pageant—a historic moment that’s both a personal triumph and a cultural lightning rod.
Isabelle’s journey to this stage began in Howland, Maine, where she grew up watching her sister and friends compete in Little Miss pageants. Those glittering evenings, filled with gowns and confidence, captivated her.
“I’d sit there, wide-eyed, dreaming of being up there,”
she recalls. But as a child grappling with her gender identity, that dream felt out of reach. By age 3 or 4, Isabelle knew she was a girl, though it wasn’t until her teens that she came out. At 18, she legally changed her name; by 20, she began her medical transition.
“It was about becoming who I’ve always been,”
she says.
Her path wasn’t easy. High school brought bullying—slurs, threats, even objects thrown at her. Yet Isabelle found solace in cheerleading, a co-ed space where she won state and national titles, and in dance, where she honed her poise. After graduating, she worked as a makeup artist for MAC Cosmetics, helping women find confidence through beauty.
“I loved seeing someone light up when they felt beautiful,”
she says. At 22, she returned to rural Maine, opening Blossom Farmstand with her partner, cultivating fruit and raising animals.
“It’s where I’m happiest,”
she says,
“but I never stopped dreaming of pageants.”
The Miss Maine USA pageant became possible in 2012, when the Miss Universe Organization allowed transgender women to compete. Inspired by trailblazers like Kataluna Enriquez, the first trans woman to compete in Miss USA, Isabelle signed up a year ago, driven by love for the craft, not politics.
“I’m here because I love pageants,”
she says.
“I just happen to be trans.”
Her preparation has been rigorous: mock interviews with friends, etiquette classes, and countless hours studying past pageants. The interview segment, weighted at 50% of the score, is her focus.
“It’s about showing who you are,”
she says, adjusting a sapphire gown she’s chosen for the evening wear portion.
Isabelle’s participation has drawn both applause and vitriol. Her family, friends, and much of Maine’s LGBTQ+ community have rallied behind her.
“She’s showing trans kids they can dream big,”
says a supporter on social media. But the backlash has been fierce. Online, transphobic comments flood conservative outlets, some calling her
“a man pretending to be a woman.”
In Monson, harassment has turned physical—beer cans were thrown at her home, prompting a police call. “It’s terrifying,” Isabelle admits, linking the hostility to anti-trans rhetoric amplified by former President Donald Trump’s recent executive orders, including a February 2025 push to bar trans women from female sports. Maine, however, has resisted federal pressure, maintaining inclusive policies—a stance that emboldens Isabelle.
“If I can inspire one kid to feel seen, it’s worth it,”
she says.
The pageant itself is a cultural flashpoint. Among the 25–50 contestants is Jordon Hudson, last year’s runner-up and girlfriend of UNC football coach Bill Belichick, whose presence has drawn extra media glare. Yet Isabelle remains focused, hoping to show “there’s no one way to be trans.” Her participation is a beacon for rural trans people, often invisible in national narratives.
