Chapter 11: "The Love Letters Start"
It started with a single email.
Subject line: "You made me feel seen."
I almost didn't open it. I'd just published my blog post about big panties and broken hearts, and while I had expected some response — maybe a few likes, maybe a comment or two from friends — I wasn't prepared for what came next.
That first message was from a girl named Maya, only seventeen. She wrote about how she used to hide her natural hair under wigs because people at school said it looked "too wild." She talked about how she wore cotton panties like mine but always changed before gym class because she was afraid someone would make fun of her. And then she said something that hit me right in the chest:
"Your story made me realize that loving who I am doesn't have to be a secret anymore."
I read that sentence three times.
Then I read it again.
And I cried.
Not because I felt sad — no, this time, I cried because I realized that my pain, my joy, my love for something as simple as granny panties had become more than just my own story. It was now part of someone else's journey toward self-acceptance.
Within days, more messages poured in.
A woman in Atlanta wrote about how she stopped hiding her stretch marks after reading my words. A woman in Chicago thanked me for giving her the courage to wear her grandmother's old headscarves without shame. Another young woman shared how she used to throw away her cotton underwear because she thought they were "uncool," until she read my post and realized they were part of her cultural pride.
Every letter was different, but they all carried the same message:
"Thank you for being unapologetically you."
At first, I responded to each one personally. I wanted them to know I saw them, just like they had seen me. But soon, the volume became overwhelming. I couldn't keep up — not just with replying, but with processing the sheer weight of what was happening.
I was helping people feel brave.
Me.
Tubo.
The girl who once stood in her bathroom holding bleach over a drawer full of underwear, ready to erase herself.
Now, I was lighting sparks in others.
So, I made a decision.
I created a new section on my blog called "Under My Skin" — a space where readers could share their stories anonymously if they wanted. I invited submissions from anyone who had ever felt too much, too loud, too different. I promised to publish every story that came in — no judgment, no editing, just raw truth.
And they sent them.
They came from everywhere — Nigeria, London, Texas, Jamaica, France. Some were long. Some were short. All of them were powerful.
One woman wrote about growing up ashamed of her hips until she found vintage panties that hugged them like a hug from God. Another described how wearing cotton helped her reclaim her body after years of disordered eating. There was even a poem titled "My Panties Are My Armor" that brought tears to my eyes.
With every post, my heart grew bigger.
Heavier.
Fuller.
I wasn't just writing a blog anymore.
I was building a movement.
One ruffle at a time.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn't just surviving.
I was thriving.
Because when we give our stories to the world — even the ones we think are too strange, too soft, too bold — sometimes, they find someone who needs them exactly when they need them most.
And that?
That is magic.