The blister that became toughened skin from holding a shovel. The lines that deepened from years of kneading dough and pulling weeds. The stains that won't come out no matter how much you wash because they're part of the work you do every day. These hands have made things. Built things. Grown things. 💚

A woman with soft, perfect hands hasn't really lived yet. Real life leaves marks. Real work changes you. Real purpose leaves evidence on your body. I see girls worried about their hands looking young and beautiful, and I think—that's missing the point. Beauty doesn't come from doing nothing. Beauty comes from doing something that matters. 🌾

I'd rather have these calluses and know that I've created something real than have perfect hands and wonder what I ever actually did with my life. My rough hands are proof that I'm alive, that I work, that I matter. And I'm proud of that. ✨