Im the daughter of a farmerand some people think that makes me less somehow.
I grew up on a potato farm about ten miles outside of town, where mornings start before sunrise and “holiday” means the county fair. My parents have dirt under their nails and more grit than anyone I know. I thought that was enough to earn peoples respect.
Then I got into this posh scholarship program at a private school in the city. It was supposed to be my big break. But on the first day, I walked into class wearing jeans that still smelled a bit of hay, and this girl with a glossy ponytail whispered, Ugh. Do you live in a barn or something? I didnt even answer. I just sat down and kept my head low. Told myself I was imagining it. But the comments kept coming. What *are* those shoes? Wait, do you even have Wi-Fi at home? One lad asked if I came to school on a tractor.
I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never talked about home. But inside, I hated feeling ashamed. Because at home, Im not that farmers kid. Im Poppy. I know how to fix a flat tyre, handle chickens, and sell produce better than anyone. My parents built something real with their own hands. Why did I feel like I had to hide that?
The turning point came at a school fundraiser. Everyone had to bring something from home to sell. Most kids showed up with shop-bought biscuits or crafts made with their nannys help. I brought my familys sweet potato pie. Made six of them, and they were gone in twenty minutes.
Thats when Mrs. Bell, the school counsellor, pulled me aside and said something Ill never forget. But before she could finish, someone I never expected to talk to melet alone ask me a questionwalked over. It was Oliver. The boy everyone admired. Not because he was loud or flashy, but because he had this quiet confidence. His dad was on the board, his shoes were always spotless, and he actually remembered peoples names. Even mine.
Hey, Poppy, he said, eyeing the empty plates. Did you really make these?
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
He smiled. Can I get one for my mum? She loves anything with sweet potato.
Pretty sure I blinked twice before managing, Uh, yeah. Ill bring it Monday.
Mrs. Bell gave me a knowing look, like *Told you so*, and added, I was just sayingthis pie? Its a piece of who you are. You should be proud to share that.
That night, I stayed up thinking. Not about Oliver, but about all the times Id hidden my roots, thinking they made me small. What if they actually made me stronger?
So on Monday, I didnt just bring a pie. I printed flyers. Came up with a namePoppys Rootsand handed out little cards that said, *Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavours.* Figured maybe a few classmates would be curious.
By the end of lunch, I had twelve pre-orders and a DM from a girl named Sophie asking if I could make desserts for her nans birthday party.
After that, it went mad. Teachers asked for mini-pies for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade me a designer jacket for three pies. (I said no. Respectfully. It was ugly.)
But what really got me was a message from Olivera photo of his mum mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read: *She says its better than her sisters pie, and thats high praise.*
I laughed out loud. Dad looked over and asked, Good news?
Very, I said. Think were expanding.
We started baking together every Thursday after school. Sometimes pies, sometimes biscuits or bread. I learned more family recipes in that time than I ever had before. And I started weaving those stories into school projectstalking about the land, my grandparents, the tough years during droughts.
Slowly, people listened.
Glossy Ponytail Girl? Asked for the recipe. I gave her a simplified versionno wood-fired oven tricksbut it felt good.
By our final year, when we had to do a project on something that shaped our identity, I made a documentary-style film about our farm. Filmed Mum washing carrots in a bucket, Dad feeding bread crusts to the dogs. Ended it with me at the village fair, standing behind my pie stall under a hand-painted sign.
When they played it for the whole school, I was terrified. Stared at the floor the whole time. But at the end? Applause. Loud. A few people even stood up.
After, Oliver gave me a side hug. Told you your story mattered.
I smiled. Took me a while to believe it.
The truth is, I thought people wouldnt respect me if they knew where I came from. Now I know you teach people how to see you. When you own your story, it becomes your strengthnot your shame.
So yeahIm a farmers daughter. And that doesnt make me less.
It keeps me grounded.
If this made you smile or reminded you to be proud of where youre from, give it a and share it with someone who needs it.
