When Prince William extends an invitation to a ball, the natural response is to say yes, right? Well, I think I managed some kind of strangled noise before muttering a hesitant “uh-huh,” akin to a Muppet character. It was a question I never anticipated receiving as an American, whose sole reference for a ball was Disney’s Cinderella. It felt surreal, almost like a scene out of a cartoon. Yet, there he was, Prince William—very real and very charming—standing in front of me, complete with a layer of Scottish mist on his sport coat.
This unexpected moment unfolded during my junior year in the quaint coastal town of St. Andrews. I was enrolled in a course titled “Tragedy in the Age of Shakespeare,” taught by a Welsh professor whose accent was thick enough to make me squint each time he spoke. Class took place every Wednesday in a stone basement of a building older than my own country. I’d stroll past the ruins of a cathedral to reach the student union, feigning interest in golf. On weekends, armed with my trusty Lonely Planet guide and a EuroRail pass, I explored as many countries and cultures as my budget allowed.
Study and travel were my primary objectives; meeting royalty was far from my mind. I was aware of Prince William’s presence at the university, where he was pursuing geography while dating a girl everyone raved about. For me, he was merely a shadow of rumors. I would enter the library and hear whispers of, “You just missed him! He was here in a green sweater!” News of him was intriguing but felt as distant as celebrity gossip.
So, when I received a text from a friend telling me I had “just missed him!” at the library one Sunday afternoon, I smiled and continued on my way. Then came the follow-up message: “He is still here. COME NOW.” Back then, there were no emojis, but I could sense her excitement through the screen. I turned around.
Moments later, I dashed into the library, dodging a few annoyed graduate students at the front desk, and found my friend—a petite redhead who seemed like she belonged in Scotland but hailed from Connecticut. “Where is he?” I asked in a barely-contained whisper.
“You didn’t see him?” she replied, incredulous.
“No!”
“He’s outside at a folding table with two others, selling tickets to the Water Polo Ball.”
I had forgotten he played water polo. Unsure of what that entailed, I pictured horses in floaties and guys wielding lacrosse sticks—that couldn’t be right. But the thought of speaking to a man who could one day be king sent a shiver down my spine. I decided I had to talk to him.
My friend, a psychology major, had already returned to her work, leaving me to face my nervousness alone. I stepped back outside, squinting in the sunlight, and there he was, just ten feet away, leaning over a makeshift table.
Until that moment, I had never considered myself particularly brave; I was never the first to speak up in class or the last to stand my ground in an argument. Yet somehow, I mustered the courage to approach him. I had no small talk prepared—no insights on sports, prep schools, or royal gossip. For a terrifying second, his name escaped me. But then he looked up, smiled warmly, and coaxed a few words from me like pennies from a jar.
“Uh, hello.”
“Hello,” he replied with a grin that showcased all his teeth.
“You’re from America?” he asked after a pause that felt like an eternity.
“Yes, from the south. Tennessee.” I resisted the urge to draw a map on the table; after all, he was a geography major.
“Ah, Jack Daniels,” he joked, and we shared a laugh over a common ground—alcohol, of all things. We exchanged pleasantries about our classes and professors, and I even recommended a book. In that brief interaction, he transformed from a royal figure into a relatable college student, and I felt a newfound sense of confidence.
So, when he asked me, “Do you want to go to the ball?” I responded with an enthusiastic “uh-huh,” and we shook hands. I might have even bowed slightly as I waved goodbye.
Back at my seaside home, I held the ticket to the ball up to the light. It wasn’t just about attending an event; I had plans to fly to Paris that weekend to visit a friend. We would savor crepes and wander the city like carefree pigeons. I had no desire to be a wallflower at a dance where William and Kate would dazzle. What mattered was that I had spoken to him, if only to prove to myself that I could. It was a small victory, better than chasing a celebrity’s ghost around town. It affirmed my self-worth—he may have had titles and lineage, but on a fundamental level, we were equals: two students navigating university life.
I now share this tale with my daughter, who is enchanted by the world of princes and princesses. I skip over the whiskey joke, but I make sure to highlight how I found my courage and how human he was. I want her to remember her worth and that every individual has significance—not from titles, but from their mere existence. Everyone deserves to feel heard and valued.
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In summary, my unexpected encounter with Prince William taught me invaluable lessons about self-worth, courage, and the importance of seeing the humanity in everyone—regardless of their status.
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