They Called Me Princess (But My Hands Tell a Different Story)

I was raised selling groceries.

Canned goods. Expectations.

Markdowns. Whispered judgments.

Freezer doors. Silent wars fought inside of me.

I learned not from podiums.

From pallets.

From people’s moods. Their silence.

Their pride. Their pain.

And the unglamorous rhythm of groceries.

I showed up when my heart needed safety.

Not from work.

From the world. From the people who were supposed to love me.

I stocked shelves when they thought I didn’t need to work.

Ran a register when my soul begged to run away.

Stood on concrete floors until my feet ached.

Unloaded trucks in the dark, cold rain.

Wrote schedules people resented me for.

They whispered: “princess.”

Seethed: “silver spoon.”

But my hands tell a different story.

Not privilege.

Persistence.

I didn’t study leadership.

I watched people.

Who listened.

Who lied.

Who led from ego.

Who led from truth.

I learned.

Power isn’t given.

It’s revealed.

Respect isn’t owed.

It’s earned — quietly, over time.

Those aisles taught me resilience.

Those aisles taught me grace.

Those aisles taught me strength.

Those aisles taught me service,

And the importance of being a person worth knowing.

I am made of aisles.

Expectation.

Grief.

Choice.

Courage no one saw but me.

Character.

And, complexity.

When the store fell, I didn’t.

I was never made of walls.

I was made of everything I learned

working those aisles.

And now?

Those aisles are gone.

The shelves. The concrete floors.

The freezer doors are no more.

But they walk with me.

Not in blueprints or buildings.

But in muscle memory.

In how I see the world.

In how I behave.

In who I’ve become.

The Aisles of Me.

Stocked.

Full.

Ready.

—Me.