The REAL Reason Behind Our Name

Why The Brown Thumb?

“You’re Black, not brown,” said Emily—the little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl.

We were in elementary school, sitting in a circle, picking out crayons for a project. Everyone else had choices—pink, peach, golden yellow. Me? I was handed a black crayon, no options, and told, “Here, this is for you because you’re Black.”

I stared down at my cocoa-brown skin, confused. I’m not Black. I’m brown. But Emily insisted. The black crayon was shoved into my hand. No choice. No chance to speak.

That moment still lingers. Cheers to Emily for giving me my first traumatic reminder of how the world sees me—how it would always see me. A reminder that I would never have the same options as her.

I grew up at Pinewood Elementary—yes, with a name like that, you can probably guess the demographic. There weren’t many kids who looked like me. Black and brown faces were rare. The first non-Black, non-white person I met was a boy named Christian. He was darker than Emily but lighter than me, and he too was picked on, just like me.

Being different was my whole life. Growing up in a primarily white area, even the Black kids made me feel different. My family lived in neighborhoods we could barely afford because my dad could build our house. He was a tradesman, a builder of beautiful homes, but no matter how nice the house, we were always “the Black people down the street.” Sometimes, we were called “the rich Black people,” but that was a lie too. We weren’t rich. We were just trying to survive—keeping up with the Joneses like everyone else.

As I got older, the reminders piled up. The world tells Black and brown folks where we can and cannot go, what we can and cannot do. We’re told we have to work ten times harder. Our hobbies? Not for us. They’re just cute little quirks until someone else—someone who doesn’t look like us—takes the same idea and gets all the credit.

The Brown Thumb started as my hobby. My mental health was trashed—trashed from the years I spent pretending, performing, carrying the weight of society’s expectations. The Brown Thumb was my refuge. Plants, nature, self-care, tea, quiet moments—all the awkward little things that saved me when I was at my lowest.

That hobby became my business. And it’s my business, rooted in intention.

Yes, I know “brown thumb” usually means someone who kills plants, and I hear it all the time at markets. People walk up to my booth and say, “I have a brown thumb too!” They don’t look like me, and I chuckle to myself because they have no idea.

The Brown Thumb is more than a name. It’s me standing on what’s mine. My roots, my story, my growth. Every piece of me.