They say, “No good deed goes unpunished,” but these days, it feels like no PR stunt goes unnoticed either.
Imagine this: California is engulfed in catastrophic wildfires, a tragedy that has left thousands displaced and communities devastated. Amid this chaos, who makes an appearance but the publicity-loving duo themselves? Meghan Markle takes center stage, donning a carefully chosen blue LA baseball cap, because, apparently, nothing says “I’m here to help” like flawlessly coordinated casual wear.
What truly strikes me about this situation is the glaring disparity between the gravity of the disaster and the seeming promotional spectacle surrounding Meghan’s presence. Reports suggest she used the wildfire relief effort as a backdrop to subtly spotlight her American Riviera Orchard brand. It’s baffling and frankly distasteful. Is there nothing off-limits anymore? It’s as if a devastating natural disaster became a stage for a lifestyle brand rollout—a notion that feels grotesque.
Contrast this with the approach of working royals like Prince William and Catherine, Princess of Wales. When they visit disaster zones, they arrive with a clear focus on the affected individuals and their needs. There’s no hint of branding, no strategic photo opportunities, just genuine care and support. Their actions exemplify what royal service once symbolized: dignity, discretion, and unwavering commitment to others.
Timing is everything, isn’t it? These highly visible appearances often seem to coincide with moments when their personal ventures could use a public relations boost. When other projects flounder or interest wanes, voilà—there they are, front and center at a high-profile event. One can’t help but wonder if a PR team somewhere strategized, “What better optics than handing out food to evacuees?” While any help in times of crisis is commendable, the execution here feels less like charity and more like performance art.
Take, for instance, their appearance at the Pasadena Convention Center. Reports describe them “anonymously” serving meals earlier in the day—a detail that somehow made its way to the press. Later, they returned to interact with evacuees and emergency responders, with photographers conveniently in tow to capture every hug and handshake. The local mayor, Victor Gordo, insisted their visit wasn’t for publicity, but if it walks like a PR stunt and talks like a PR stunt...well, you know the rest.
It’s worth noting the involvement of World Central Kitchen, a remarkable organization led by the indefatigable Chef José Andrés, which consistently delivers aid to communities in crisis. Yet, even their association here feels overshadowed, almost as if co-opted into the Sussex PR narrative.
Amid all this orchestrated chaos, the real tragedy gets sidelined. The loss of 11 lives, the destruction of countless homes, and the immeasurable trauma endured by survivors become mere footnotes to a spectacle. These are real people facing unimaginable loss—not extras in a publicity campaign.
Once upon a time, Prince Harry was a beacon of genuine humanitarian effort. His work, whether through the Invictus Games or his involvement with veterans, felt heartfelt and authentic. To see him now, seemingly reduced to playing a supporting role in a brand-focused narrative, is nothing short of disheartening.
The juxtaposition with Catherine’s approach is stark. When she visits hospitals or disaster-stricken areas, her presence feels natural, her compassion palpable. There’s no need for her to announce her good deeds—they speak for themselves. She’s there to connect, to console, and to contribute meaningfully. It’s a sharp contrast to the hyper-curated, optics-driven displays we’ve come to expect from the Sussexes.
The narrative becomes even more puzzling when one recalls their stated desire for “privacy” after stepping back from royal duties. Yet, their appearances consistently dominate headlines, complete with photographers and coordinated outfits. The irony of seeking a quieter life while ensuring their every move remains in the public eye is impossible to ignore.
What’s most disheartening is the lost potential. With their platform, wealth, and influence, they could be catalysts for meaningful change. Instead, it often feels like their actions are filtered through the lens of self-promotion. The introduction—or soft launch—of the American Riviera Orchard brand amidst a calamity epitomizes opportunism. It’s akin to selling umbrellas at a funeral: technically permissible, but deeply inappropriate.
At the heart of this lies a fundamental misunderstanding of what public service should be. The monarchy, at its best, embodies quiet dignity and tireless service. It’s about others, not oneself. With every orchestrated photo op and strategic appearance, the gap between the Sussexes and the working royals grows wider.
There’s a bitter irony in their desire to escape the constraints of royal life only to embrace the superficial trappings of celebrity culture. While William and Catherine quietly continue their duties, making genuine connections and meaningful contributions, the Sussexes appear caught in an endless loop of image management.
True charity doesn’t require an audience. Genuine compassion doesn’t demand applause. Until the Sussexes grasp this, their efforts—however well-intentioned—will always carry the taint of self-interest. And in the shadow of their spectacle, the real victims—the evacuees, the firefighters, and the grieving families—remain the true, unsung heroes of this story.
