They Mocked Me for Being ‘Country,’ Yet They Came from the Middle of Nowhere Themselves…

**Diary Entry**

I was mocked for being a country bumpkin by people who came from the very same roots.

I grew up in a small village in the Yorkshire Dales, surrounded by rolling hills and fields. From childhood, I learned the value of hard workof tending to the land, growing my own vegetables, and finding peace in the simple things. We werent wealthy, but we lived well. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the earthnot as a chore, but as something that grounded me. Theres a quiet joy in digging in the soil, watching things grow, knowing Ive nurtured them myself. So when I married James, I made it clear: We need a cottage with a garden. If we dont have one, well save until we do.

At first, he wasnt keencity-born and bredbut seeing how happy it made me, he agreed. We bought a modest little place just outside York. Everything should have been perfect if not for his parents. From the start, they looked down on me, especially his mother, Margaret Whitmore. Every visit was laced with subtle jabs.

Still fussing over your carrots? Like some farmers wife, shed sneer.

Our son didnt get an education and move to London just to play in the dirt.

It stung. Not because I was ashamedbut because I couldnt understand the contempt. I wasnt forcing anyone. I was inviting them to share in something beautiful. Gardening isnt a punishmentits life, its care.

I let it slide for ages. Theyre city people, I told myself. They dont get it. Until I stumbled upon the trutha truth so ironic, I nearly laughed.

Turns out, James parents werent always Londoners. His mother grew up in a tiny Norfolk village; his father came from the backwaters of Lincolnshire. Worse yet, their own parents still lived there, in creaky old cottages, growing their own produce. But once they moved to the city, they erased itscrubbed their past clean, as if ashamed of where they came from.

And yet, without a hint of self-awareness, Margaret would snipe: Look at your flatits like some grannys parlour! All those knick-knacks, photos, quilts Our home is sleek. Minimalist. No clutter.

But thats what I lovecosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe its not fashionable, but its human.

For years, I bit my tongue. Never confronted them. Until one afternoon, over tea in the garden, she wrinkled her nose at my homemade strawberry jam and blackcurrant pie.

Ugh, everything about you is so rustic.

I smiled. Theres a saying, you know: You can take the girl out of the countryside, but you cant take the countryside out of the girl. Except I wasnt talking about me, Margaret. I was talking about you.

She froze. I watched her eye twitch. Excuse me?

Im proud of where I come from. Youre the one whos ashamed. Thats the difference.

After that, she never said another word. No more snide remarks, no sneers when I brought preserves or jars of pickles. If anything, she seemed respectful.

I dont hold grudges. But it still bothers mebeing belittled for something they once were. Since when are roots something to hide? Since when is hard work something to mock?

Im a woman who loves the earth. Im not ashamed of my village. I can plant and harvest, bake and preserve. And Im no less than those in their trendy, bare-walled flats. Because a home without soul is just a shell. Mine has warmth. And it always will.