Call Me Zsa Zsa: The Diva Was Born, Not Made

Before I could even form full sentences, I knew how to make an entrance.

My nickname—Zsa Zsa—wasn’t something I chose. It was bestowed. As in Zsa Zsa Gabor, darling. Yes, that Zsa Zsa. The Hungarian-American socialite with a tongue like velvet and a wardrobe that could silence a room. But this isn’t just about namesakes. This is about how sparkle gets passed down like family silver.

As a little girl, I watched Green Acres religiously. I didn’t just like the Gabor sisters—I felt them in my bones. That mix of high-maintenance glamour and unapologetic presence? It mirrored my own tiny but mighty spirit. I was maybe two years old, but already the performance had begun.

My grandfather, wise and quietly amused, saw the drama unfolding. Not the tantrum kind—the fabulous kind. He’d watch me strut around the house like a pint-sized heiress, clutching imaginary pearls and delivering lines with operatic flair. Naturally, he leaned in. He started buying me those all-in-one princess kits: you know the ones—dress, gloves, tiara, kitten heels, a wand, a clutch, and even plastic makeup with sparkly combs. Every color. Pink, white, baby blue, lemon chiffon. My closet looked like the backstage of a toddler version of the Met Gala.

And when I was being extra royal, he’d switch it up and call me Queen Sheba. Because when you out-Gabor Gabor, you ascend to biblical.

My grandmother, his partner-in-crime, made sure the external matched the internal. I was enrolled in pageants by age four—lace gloves, ruffled socks, patent leather Mary Janes. My earliest memories are full of satin sashes, parasols, and the scent of hairspray warming under stage lights.

But here’s the thing about nicknames: they’re often prophetic. Zsa Zsa wasn’t just cute. It was a mirror. A declaration. A kind of knowing. It said, “This one? She’s not made for the background.” It captured a spirit I would spend a lifetime growing into: bold, magnetic, a little misunderstood, and impossible to ignore.

So when someone asks, “Why Zsa Zsa?”—I smile. Because it’s not a name. It’s a legacy. It’s a memory of rhinestones on toddler gloves and the echo of my grandfather’s laugh when I gave a royal wave.

It’s a reminder that before I knew what power was, I was already wearing it.

👑✨