Im a farmers daughterand 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 would be enough to earn peoples respect.
Then I got into this posh scholarship programme 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 like the barn, and a girl with a glossy ponytail whispered, Ugh. Do you live on a farm 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 kind of shoes are those? Wait, do you even have Wi-Fi at home? One boy asked if I took a tractor to school.
I stayed quiet, worked hard, and never talked about home. But deep down, I hated feeling ashamed. Because at home, Im not that farmers kid. Im Maisie. I know how to fix a flat tyre, handle chickens, and sell produce like nobodys business. 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 their nannies helped make. I brought my familys sweet potato pie. Made six of themsold out in twenty minutes.
Thats when Mrs. Bell, the counsellor, pulled me aside and said something Ill never forget. But before she finished, someone I never expected came up to meOliver. The guy everyone admired. Not because he was loud or flashy, but because he had this quiet confidence. His dad was on the school board, his shoes were always spotless, and he actually remembered peoples names. Even mine.
Hey, Maisie, 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 shed been right all along, and said, I was just telling herthis pie? Its a piece of who you are. You should be proud to share it.
That night, I lay awake thinking. Not about Oliver, but about all the times Id hidden where I came from, thinking it made me small. What if it actually made me stronger?
So on Monday, I didnt just bring one pie. I printed flyers. Came up with a name”Maisies Roots”and handed out cards that said, Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavours. Figured maybe a few classmates would be curious.
By lunch, I already had twelve orders and a DM from a girl named Zoe asking if I could do desserts for her nans birthday party.
After that, it went mad. Teachers wanted mini-pies for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade a designer jacket for three pies. (Politely declined. It was ugly.)
But what really got me was Olivers texta photo of his mum mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read: She says its better than her sisters pieand for her, thats high praise.
I laughed out loud. Dad looked over and asked, Good news?
Very good, I said. Think were expanding.
We started baking together every Thursday after homework. Sometimes pies, sometimes biscuits or bread. I learned more family recipes in those months 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.
The girl with the shiny ponytail? Asked for the recipe. Gave her a simplified versionno wood-fired oven tricksbut it felt good.
By sixth form, when we had to do a final project on something that shaped us, I made a documentary-style film about our farm. Filmed Mum washing carrots in a bucket, Dad tossing crusts to the dogs. Ended it with me at the village fair, standing by 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 when it endedapplause. Loud. Someone even stood up.
After, Oliver gave me a side hug. Told you your story mattered.
I smiled. I was slow 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 yesIm a farmers daughter. And that doesnt make me less.
It makes me rooted.
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 to hear it.
