Growing up as Michael Jackson’s daughter was a strange mix of privilege and trauma. She remembers the talent, the music, the global adoration — but she also remembers the chaos. The mobs of paparazzi. The flashbulbs exploding in her face so often that they became more than an annoyance; they became a trigger. She’s talked openly about how these moments followed her into adulthood, resurfacing as PTSD, paranoia, and audio hallucinations. For a long time she didn’t understand the symptoms. She simply knew she never felt safe.

On Red Table Talk, she was blunt: at one point, even a camera shutter could send her spiraling. Therapy — especially EMDR, a treatment specifically designed for trauma — helped her rebuild her sense of stability. It taught her how to separate fear from memory, and memory from identity. She still works on it, but she no longer hides it. “There’s strength in being honest about what broke you,” she said.

Paris has also been open about her sexuality. She doesn’t like labels and doesn’t feel she needs one. She’s dated men, she’s dated women, and she’s uninterested in putting herself into a box for other people’s comfort. Her brothers have been nothing but supportive. Some older relatives, influenced by strict religious views, struggled to understand — but Paris reached a point where their approval stopped being a currency she cared about. “I respect their beliefs,” she explained. “I just don’t need them to validate mine.”

She carries that same independence into her career. Instead of becoming a pop replica of her father, Paris carved her own path in alternative and indie music. Her 2020 album, Wilted, is raw, heavy, melodic — a reflection of the years she spent trying to make sense of grief, trauma, and love. She writes because she has to. She performs because it lets her breathe. And she’s fully aware of the expectations people placed on her because of her last name. She never tried to meet them. She simply learned to ignore them.

But the topic that seems to follow her everywhere is her identity as a Black woman. Michael Jackson spoke openly and proudly about being African-American, even as his vitiligo changed his appearance. He reminded his children constantly where they came from. Race wasn’t a casual topic in their household — it was a point of pride. Paris remembers him looking her straight in the eye and telling her, “You’re Black. Be proud of your roots.”

She never forgot it.

To her, Black identity isn’t limited to complexion. It’s blood, upbringing, culture, family, history. She comes from a mixed-race background, and she honors the part of her father that shaped her worldview more than any genetics test could. She’s aware that some people online disagree or mock her for it. She’s read the comments. She’s seen the jokes. And she does not care. Her identity isn’t up for public negotiation. It’s something she learned from the man who raised her — a man who made sure she understood where she came from even as the world tried to distort his image.

For Paris, claiming her identity isn’t performative. It isn’t a headline. It’s rooted in actual lived experience. She grew up listening to her father’s stories about his childhood, his family, his culture, and the pride he took in being a Black artist who redefined music. Those conversations mattered more to her than the world’s assumptions. They still do.

She’s also learned that healing means letting people misunderstand you without letting their voices define you. Paris knows she will always be judged — for how she looks, who she dates, the career she chose, the way she speaks about her father. She’s accepted that. But she refuses to let anyone else tell her who she’s allowed to be.

Her journey has also made her advocate for mental health in a way that feels grounded, not inspirational-poster fake. When she talks about PTSD, she talks about the brain fog, the panic attacks, the fear of social situations. When she talks about depression, she talks about the days she could barely get out of bed. She wants people to understand that recovery isn’t a straight line or a polished story — it’s messy, painful, and ongoing.

What grounds her now is the same thing that grounded her as a child: music. Writing lyrics still feels like having a conversation with herself — sometimes honest, sometimes brutal. She has said that if she didn’t have songwriting as an outlet, she isn’t sure where she’d be today. Music was the one thing she never had to pretend about.

Through all of this, Michael Jackson remains a presence in her life — not as a myth or a superstar, but as a father who shaped her sense of self. She still hears his voice when she needs direction. She still carries the values he taught her. And she still defends the parts of him that mattered most: his pride in his heritage, his artistic passion, his insistence that his children know who they are no matter how the world tries to define them.

Identity, for Paris, isn’t a debate. It’s a legacy. A lived experience. A constant reminder of where she comes from and who raised her. It’s complicated, but it’s real — and she’s done apologizing for it.

Whatever people may think, Paris Jackson stands firm in her truth: her roots matter, her voice matters, and she’s finally learned how to own both without asking anyone for permission.