**Diary Entry 12th October**
Im the daughter of a farmerand some people seem to think that makes me lesser.
I grew up on a potato farm about ten miles outside of Manchester, where mornings start before the sun rises and holiday means the annual county fair. My parents have dirt under their nails and more grit than anyone Ive ever known. I thought that would be enough to earn peoples respect.
Then I got into this prestigious 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 carried a faint scent of the barn, and a girl with a glossy ponytail wrinkled her nose. Ugh. Do you live on a farm or something? I didnt 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 boy asked if Id taken a tractor to school.
I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never spoke about home. But inside, I hated feeling ashamed. Because at home, Im not that farmers daughter. Im Alice. I can 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 during a school fundraiser. Everyone was supposed to bring something from home to sell. Most kids turned up with shop-bought biscuits or crafts made with their nannies help. I brought my familys spiced potato cake recipe. I baked six, and they sold out 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 speak to me walked overOliver. 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, Alice, he said, eyeing the empty plates. Did you really make these?
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
He smiled. Can I order one for my mum? She loves anything with spiced potato.
I think 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 added, I was just sayingthis cake? 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 my roots, believing they made me small. What if they actually made me stronger?
So on Monday, I didnt just bring one cake. I printed flyers. Came up with a nameAlices Rootsand handed out cards that read, Farm-to-table cakes, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavours. I figured maybe a few classmates would be curious.
By lunch, I had twelve pre-orders and a DM from a girl named Sophie asking if I could bake for her grans birthday party.
After that, it was madness. Teachers asked for mini-cakes for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade a designer jacket for three cakes. (I said no. Respectfully. It was hideous.)
But what really got me was Olivers messagea photo of his mum mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read: She says its better than her sistersand 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 homework. Sometimes cakes, 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 presentationstalking about the land, my grandparents, the tough years when the harvests were lean.
Slowly, people started listening.
The girl with the ponytail? She asked for the recipe. I gave her a simplified versionno wood-fired oven tricksbut it felt good.
By sixth form, when we had to do a final project on what shaped our identity, I made a documentary-style film about our farm. I filmed Mum washing carrots in a bucket, Dad tossing crusts to the dogs. Ended it with me at the village fair, standing beside my cake stall under a hand-painted sign.
When it played in front of the whole school, I was terrified. Stared at the floor the entire time. But when it finished, the applause was loud. Really loud. A few even stood up.
After, Oliver found me and 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 yesIm a farmers daughter. And that doesnt make me less.
It makes me rooted.
