I’m a Farmer’s Daughter—And I Used to Think That Made Me Less

I grew up ten miles outside of town on a sweet potato farm. Vacations were county fairs. Weekends meant patching tires or feeding chickens. My parents wore sun-faded jeans and carried calluses like badges of honor. I used to think that kind of grit was enough for people to respect us.

Then I got accepted into a scholarship program at a private high school in the city. Supposed to be my “big break.”

On my first day, still smelling faintly of barn dust, I heard a girl with a glossy ponytail whisper behind me, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?”

I didn’t respond. Just sank into my seat. But the comments didn’t stop. Questions that sounded like jokes. Judgments hiding behind giggles.
“Wait, so you don’t have WiFi at home?”
“Do you actually ride a tractor to school?”

I stopped mentioning home. Stopped bringing anything “country” into my city-school life. On the outside, I focused on grades and fitting in. But inside, I hated the feeling of shame I couldn’t shake—shame for something that once felt like pride.

The Pie That Changed Everything

It all shifted during a school fundraiser. We were supposed to bring something from home to sell. Most kids brought store-bought cookies or Pinterest-level crafts.

I brought six sweet potato pies—my family’s recipe, the same one we sell at fairs.

They sold out in twenty minutes.

Ms. Bell, the school guidance counselor, pulled me aside as I was wiping down my table. She smiled and said, “This? This is a piece of who you are. Don’t hide it.”

Before I could reply, someone else walked up.

It was Izan.

Not the loud, flashy type—but someone everyone liked. Kind eyes. Remembered people’s names. And somehow… mine.

“Hey, Mele,” he said, nodding toward the pie plates. “Did you really make those yourself?”

I nodded, unsure if this was curiosity or a setup.

He grinned. “Think I could get one for my mom? She’s obsessed with sweet potatoes.”

I managed a quiet, “Sure. I’ll bring one Monday.”

Mele’s Roots: More Than Just a Pie

That weekend, I got to thinking. Not about Izan—okay, maybe a little—but more about what Ms. Bell had said. What if I stopped pretending to be someone else? What if I brought more of me into this new world?

Monday came. I delivered Izan’s pie—with flyers.

I called it Mele’s Roots. Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. I added, “Ask about seasonal flavors.”

By the end of lunch, I had twelve pre-orders and a DM asking if I could cater someone’s grandma’s birthday.

It took off. Staff asked for mini pies at meetings. Kids offered trades—one girl even tried to swap a designer jacket for three pies. (I declined. Politely. It was hideous.)

Owning My Story

One night, Izan sent me a photo: his mom mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read, She says this is better than her sister’s—and that’s a big deal.

I laughed. My dad, seeing the grin on my face, asked, “That a good thing or bad?”

“Very good,” I said. “I think we’re expanding.”

Thursdays became baking nights with my parents—pies, biscuits, cornbread. I started including stories about our land and traditions in schoolwork. And slowly, people started listening.

Even the ponytail girl asked for a recipe. I gave her a beginner’s version. Baby steps.

From Shame to Strength

For my senior identity project, I made a documentary about our farm. I filmed my mom washing carrots, my dad tossing bread crusts to the dogs, and ended it with me at the fair, under my “Mele’s Roots” sign.

When the video finished in front of the whole school, I stared at the floor. Until I heard clapping. Then cheering.

Izan hugged me afterward. “Told you your story mattered.”

I smiled. “Took me a while to believe it.”

I’m Not Just the “Farm Girl”

I used to think people wouldn’t respect me if they knew where I came from. But now I know—when you own your story, people can’t use it against you. They can only learn from it.

So yeah—I’m a farmer’s daughter. And no, that doesn’t make me less.

It makes me rooted.

If this story reminded you of your roots—or made you smile—hit ❤️ and share it with someone who needs to be reminded their story matters too.