Rooted.

I learned early what it felt like to doubt myself. 

Sitting outside my new classroom, I waited for my pre-kindergarten assessment. It was my first real academic test. As a five-year-old, I didn’t have any preconceived notions or expectations. Just that when the teacher asked me questions, I was to answer them the best I could. 

To start things off, she turned to me and asked something simple, “Can you tell me what a sail is?” 

I sat up tall in my plastic orange chair and spoke with the conviction only a five-year-old could deliver. Confidently I stated, “A sale is when you go to a garage and buy something. A garage sale.”

My teacher couldn’t help laughing. Looking back, how could she not? An innocent five-year-old describing the concept of a bargain to a grown woman. It was darling, and—dare I say—a foreshadowing of my future in the fashion industry.

In my defense, a sale is far more common than a sail in the middle of rural Indiana. I stand by my answer.

But with every laugh, the more painfully self-aware I became; the more powerless I felt. Slowly I crumbled from the inside out, not fully understanding what I had done or how to make this stop. It was the first time I remember doubting myself, my own voice. I felt rejected. 

In my mind, that day I failed my first test. The experience taught me early on that it was not safe to say what was on my mind without first trying to guess what was on someone else’s. 

It’s in the tiniest, seemingly insignificant moments like these that seeds are planted and grow into stories that form our understanding of who we should be and how we should live. 

Maybe like me, you know what it feels like to want to say something out loud but hold back for fear of being wrong. Or to speak up only when you know it’s exactly what someone else wants to hear. 

Over the years, I found myself trading bits of who I am for the person I thought I was supposed to be. Every time I would have a conversation with someone in a position of power, I would panic inside. It felt like one more test I might fail. I’d begin analyzing what I thought they wanted to hear and try my best to meet their expectations. I’d feel exhausted. 

And as I entered my 30s, something started to break. 

There was an experiment not too long ago in Arizona where a group of scientists created a large, contained environment—a bio dome—to mimic the ecosystem of a mini Earth. Their intent was to study the impacts of life as we know it in nature, but as they began to watch the trees break and die, they realized they had forgotten to account for one important thing: wind.

In altering myself to please others, I had constructed my own personal bio dome. Defenses up—protecting myself from the elements—without ever noticing that every time I do so, it makes me weaker. In avoiding the stress of disappointing others, I missed the opportunity to become more strongly rooted in my own self.

There is such strength in knowing who we are. In letting go of old stories that no longer serve us to make space for better ones. This is the work that reshapes how we live. 

I can’t say I do this perfectly. Moments of panic still arise when I feel like a kindergartener failing a test. But these days, I let the wind blow and stand my ground. Knowing, I'll be better for it.