I am the daughter of a farmerand some believe that makes me lesser.
I grew up on a potato farm ten miles from the nearest town, where mornings began before dawn and “holiday” meant the county fair. My parents had earth under their nails and more grit than anyone I knew. I thought that was enough to earn respect.
Then I won a place at a prestigious scholarship programme in a private city school. It was meant to be my big break. But on my first day, I walked into class wearing jeans that still carried the faint scent of hay, and a girl with a polished ponytail whispered, “Ugh. Do you live in a barn or something?” I didnt answer. I sat down and kept my head low. I told myself I was imagining it. But the remarks kept coming. “What even are those shoes?” “Wait, do you have Wi-Fi at home?” One boy asked if Id come to school on a tractor.
I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never spoke of home. But I hated the shame creeping in. Because at home, Im not just “the farmers daughter.” Im Emily. I can fix a tyre, manage a flock of hens, and sell produce like no one else. My parents built something real with their own hands. Why did I feel the need to hide that?
The turning point came during a school fundraiser. Everyone was to bring something from home to sell. Most students arrived with shop-bought biscuits or crafts made with their nannies help. I brought my familys sweet potato piesix of themand sold out in twenty minutes.
That was when Mrs. Bell, the school counsellor, pulled me aside and said something Id never forget. But before she could finish, someone I never expected to speak to me approachedOliver. The boy everyone admired. Not because he was loud or showy, but because he carried himself with quiet confidence. His father was on the board, his shoes were always polished, and he remembered everyones nameseven mine.
“Emily,” he said, eyeing the empty plates. “Did you really make these?”
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
He smiled. “Could I get one for my mum? She loves anything with sweet potato.”
I think I blinked twice before stammering, “Ohyes. Ill bring it Monday.”
Mrs. Bell gave me a knowing look, as if to say, *I told you so*, and added, “I was just sayingthis pie? Its a piece of who you are. You should be proud to share it.”
That night, I lay awake thinkingnot about Oliver, but about all the times Id buried my roots, believing they made me small. What if they made me stronger instead?
So on Monday, I didnt just bring one pie. I printed flyers. I came up with a name”Emilys Roots”and handed out cards that read, *Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavours.* I thought maybe a few classmates would be curious.
By lunch, I had twelve orders and a direct message from a girl named Sophie asking if I could bake for her grandmothers birthday party.
After that, it was madness. Teachers asked for mini-pies for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade a designer jacket for three pies. (I declined. Politely. It was hideous.)
But what struck me most was Olivers messagea photo of his mother mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read: *She says its better than her sistersand thats high praise.*
I laughed out loud. My father glanced over. “Good news?”
“Very,” I said. “We might need to expand.”
We started baking together every Thursday after schoolsometimes pies, sometimes biscuits or bread. I learned more family recipes in those months than I ever had before. And I began weaving those stories into school projects, speaking of the land, my grandparents, the lean years of drought.
Slowly, people listened.
The girl with the glossy ponytail? She asked for the recipe. I gave her a simpler versionno wood-fired oven tricksbut it felt good.
By my final year, when we had to present a project on what shaped our identity, I made a documentary-style film about our farm. I filmed my mother scrubbing carrots in a bucket, my father tossing bread crusts to the dogs. I ended it with me at the village fête, standing beside my hand-painted pie stall.
When it played for the whole school, I was terrified. I stared at the floor the entire time. But when it ended? Applause. Loud. A few even stood.
Afterward, Oliver gave me a sideways 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 yesI am a farmers daughter. And that doesnt make me less.
It keeps me grounded.
