Im a farmers daughterand some people think that makes me less.
I grew up on a potato farm about ten miles from 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 respect.
Then I got into this fancy 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 faintly smelled of hay, and a girl with a glossy ponytail whispered, “Ugh. Do you live on a farm or something?” I didnt answer. I just sat down and kept my head low. I 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 rode a tractor to school.
I stayed quiet, worked hard, and never talked about home. But inside, I hated feeling ashamed. Because at home, Im not “that farmers kid.” Im Daisy. 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 during 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. I baked six, and they sold 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 to talk 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 school board, his shoes were always spotless, and he actually remembered peoples names. Even mine.
“Hey, Daisy,” 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.”
I think I blinked twice before managing, “Uh, yeah. Ill bring it Monday.”
Mrs. Bell gave me a knowing look, like shed predicted this, and added, “I was just sayingthis pie? Its a part 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 pie. I printed flyers. I came up with a name”Daisys 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 pre-orders and a direct message from a girl named Emily asking if I could bake for her grandmas 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 said no. Respectfully. It was ugly.)
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 sisters pie. Thats high praise.”
I laughed out loud. My dad looked over and asked, “Good news?”
“Very good,” I said. “I 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 began weaving those stories into school projectstalking about the land, my grandparents, the struggles during dry seasons.
Slowly, people started listening.
The girl with the glossy ponytail? She 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 present a project on what shaped our identity, I made a documentary-style film about our farm. I filmed my mum washing carrots in a bucket, my dad tossing bread crusts to the dogs. I ended it with me at the village fête, standing beside my pie stall under a hand-painted sign.
When it played for the whole school, I was terrified. I stared at the floor the entire time. But at the end, the applause was thunderous. Someone even stood up.
Afterwards, 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 yesIm a farmers daughter. And that doesnt make me less.
It keeps me grounded.
If this story made you smile or reminded you to be proud of where youre from, share it with someone who needs to hear it.
