A JOURNEY OF GRACE

Let me take you back to where it all began—a tiny village with open skies, dusty roads, and a little girl dreaming big dreams.”

I grew up in a village so small that if you sneezed, the entire neighborhood would bless you. Life was simple, yet deeply rich. Our meals were cooked on a three-legged cast iron pot over an open fire, and let me tell you, those flavors were unmatched. Fat cakes were my guilty pleasure, and porridge with sour milk and no sugar was my not-so-guilty, everyday companion. We didn’t have much, but my mom made sure we never went to bed hungry. A can of pilchards and a pot of porridge could feed the entire family, and somehow, it always tasted like love.

Every Christmas, she’d transform our little shack kitchen with a fresh coat of paint—one year, it was a bold, cheerful pink. We even hung curtains where there weren’t windows, just to add a touch of joy. I still laugh thinking about it sometimes – She taught me that you don’t need much to create beauty; it’s about the love and intention behind it.

I loved uncluttered spaces even then, drawn to the way a tidy room could feel like a deep breath. And fashion? Oh, that was my escape. I’d flip through the Jet and Homechoice magazines, make a swimming costume out of plastic bag imagining myself in colorful clothes, strutting through a world far beyond our little village.

On school days, I’d walk for kilometers, barefoot, with my thoughts full of dreams. On weekends, I’d sit at the village service station, watching buses come and go along the dusty B1 road. I’d imagine myself on those buses, traveling to places I couldn’t even name, chasing the horizon. Looking back, I realize that those early moments of longing, creativity, and curiosity were shaping me in ways I didn’t understand at the time.