So, I Have a Question...

A Wild One left a comment that I haven't been able to shake.

She picked up a leadership book written by a successful businesswoman. In the opening pages, the author shared a childhood memory. Her family had moved across the country for her father's job, and one Christmas, because they didn't have a tree, her dad bought the fully decorated display tree right out of a store window.

That was it.

She closed the book.

Not because the advice was bad.

Not because the woman wasn't accomplished.

She just couldn't get past the feeling that this was someone who had started life with an advantage.

Then she asked the question that made me stop scrolling:

"Why is my idea of success wrapped around a 'started from the bottom' mentality?"

Mind.

Blown.

Because honestly?

I don't think she's the only one.

Think about the women we instinctively root for.

The wallflower.

The servant.

The youngest sister.

The ugly duckling.

The girl hiding behind a paperback.

When these women win, we don't just celebrate their success.

We feel like they earned it.

And that made me wonder...

Why do we need women like her to start in the ashes?

Okay...But Hear Me Out

When most of us think of Cinderella, we're probably imagining one story.

Glass slippers.

Pumpkin carriage.

Fairy godmother.

But there isn't one Cinderella.

There are hundreds. 

Across cultures and centuries, the details change.

The shoes change.

The magic changes.

Sometimes there's a fairy godmother.

Sometimes there's a magical tree.

Sometimes there isn't any magic at all.

And yet one pattern keeps showing up.

We meet her at the bottom.

In the kitchen.

At the hearth.

Among the cinders.

Overlooked.

Underestimated.

Waiting.

And that makes me pause.

Because when a pattern keeps showing up across cultures, I start paying attention.

Not because every culture means exactly the same thing.

But because recurring stories tend to circle recurring human questions.

Maybe Cinderella isn't just a fairy tale.

Maybe she's a pattern we've been telling ourselves for a very long time.

Tamra Teaches

Can I put my English teacher hat on for just a minute?

Because this is where I get to be a little nerdy.

Just a little.

When the same kind of character keeps appearing across different stories, books, myths, movies, and cultures, we call that an archetype.

Think of it like a blueprint.

The details change.

The names change.

The clothes change.

But the shape stays recognizable.

The wise mentor.

The trickster.

The reluctant hero.

And yes...

The girl in the ashes.

In my last year teaching, I actually had my freshmen do a comparative analysis of "Cinderella" stories from different cultures.

So none of this is new to me.

I knew there wasn't one Cinderella.

I knew about the archetype.

I knew how to teach my students to recognize the pattern.

What I hadn't done was turn the question back on myself.

Why does this pattern work so well on me?

Because the archetype isn't powerful just because we recognize it.

It's powerful because we already know how we're supposed to feel when we see it.

Cinderella gives us a pretty clear set of instructions:

Feel sorry for her.

Root for her.

Trust her.

And when she finally gets her moment...

Feel like she earned it.

Okay.

Now that has my attention.

That's Wild

The more I think about Cinderella, the more I realize the ashes aren't just part of the setting.

They're part of the argument.

Before Cinderella ever speaks...

Before she makes a single decision...

Before we know whether she's even kind, wise, funny, or brave...

We've already decided she's worth rooting for.

Why?

Because we met her in the ashes.

The setting has already told us something about her.

She's had it hard.

She's been mistreated.

She's had to make do.

So when her life changes, we're ready to celebrate.

And here's what's wild:

I don't think that's just how we read fairy tales.

I think it's part of how we've learned to read people.

We love the woman who worked three jobs to put herself through school.

The first-generation college graduate.

The single mom who built a business.

And those stories deserve to be celebrated.

Not because suffering is beautiful.

Because overcoming real obstacles can require enormous courage, creativity, endurance, and grit.

I mean, I love a good look what she did story. 

But here's where we can get ourselves into trouble.

We can go from admiring what someone overcame to believing that having something to overcome is what makes the achievement worthy in the first place.

Because the "started from the bottom" story gives us something we really like: a clean explanation for success.

She had nothing.

She worked hard.

She kept going.

She made it.

We know exactly why we're supposed to cheer.

The story feels fair.

It feels earned.

It feels morally satisfying.

That's powerful.

And maybe that's why this archetype has such staying power.

But it also raises a question I don't think fairy tales can answer for us:

What happens when we start using that same equation to judge real women?

Because opportunity gaps are real.

Gatekeeping is real.

Privilege is real.

Some people begin life with doors already open that other people spend years trying to unlock.

Where you start matters.

But does struggle have to be the entrance fee for respect?

That's where I start wrestling with myself.

Wild Thoughts

Okay.

This is where I have to turn the flashlight back on myself.

Because, friends...

I love these stories.

I really do.

Growing up, those were my stories.

The people who had to get it out the gutter.

The people who kept going after everyone else thought they would quit.

The underdogs.

Girl, I eat that stuff up!

Those stories are hope.

They told me that where you start doesn't have to be where you end.

And here's where this gets uncomfortable.

I'm working very hard to build a life where my own children don't have to start from the bottom.

I want them to have more than I had.

More opportunity.

More stability.

More doors already open.

I want them to have a head start.

And here's where I have to catch myself.

Because I can already hear myself saying it:

I had to work twice as hard and be twice as smart just to make it here.

And y'all...

That's true.

I stand on that.

I'm proud of what I had to overcome.

I don't want to rewrite my own story just because I'm uncomfortable with what it says about opportunity.

But...

But.

If I'm working this hard to make sure my children don't have to start from the bottom, why would I use starting from the bottom as the measuring stick for everyone else's worth?

That's the contradiction, isn't it?

I want the next generation to have an easier road.

But somewhere along the way, I may have started believing that the hard road makes a person more legitimate.

And those aren't the same thing.

I can believe opportunity gaps are real.

I can believe some people have had to work much harder for the same opportunities.

And I can still believe that someone who didn't have to struggle in the same way might have something valuable to teach me.

Those things can all be true at the same time.

And I don't think having advantages automatically makes someone wise.

It doesn't make someone hardworking.

It doesn't make someone a good leader.

But it doesn't make her wisdom irrelevant either.

So, I'm not going from:

"She had to struggle, so her success counts."

to:

"She had advantages, so we should give her a pass."

Nope.

That's not it either.

Maybe the better distinction is this:

Struggle can build you.

But struggle isn't the only thing that can build you.

Opportunity is a gift.

What you do with that gift is still a choice.

I can be proud of the distance I've traveled without requiring everyone else to travel the same distance before I respect them.

I can want my children to have an easier road without believing an easier road automatically makes their accomplishments less meaningful.

And I can recognize that someone's road was easier than mine...

without deciding that means there's nothing I can learn from her.

That's harder to hold.

But that's the work.

Where someone starts matters.

It just doesn't get to tell me the whole story.

And honestly?

That's a relief. 

Go Wild

Okay, Wild Ones.

I'm going to give you a homework assignment, but don't worry. I promise I won't grade it. 

Think about the last person you decided you couldn't learn from.

Not because they was wrong.

Not because they was unqualified.

But because something about their starting point rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe they had money.

Maybe they had connections.

Maybe somebody opened a door for them that you had to kick down yourself.

And be honest.

Did you roll your eyes?

Because I probably would have.

Honestly, I might still.

😂

That's the uncomfortable part.

We're not trying to convince ourselves that privilege doesn't matter.

We're asking whether someone's privilege tells us everything we need to know about her.

So here's your Wild One question for the week:

If she didn't have to struggle to get there, can you still let her teach you something?

You don't have to love her story.

You don't have to pretend the playing field was level.

And you definitely don't have to stop being proud of how hard you worked to get where you are.

Just...

don't close the book before she gets to the good part.

Go Wild.