Oct 23, 2026 · 4 min · 2 segments
The Story of the Little Girl with the Braids ~ Dr. Ramani
Ramani DurvasulaHost
Once upon a time, an eight-year-old girl sat on the floor of a stuffy cafeteria in an elementary school in New England and watched as a troupe of circus performers from New York City gave a show at her school.
It was the 1970s, an era before any kind of multicultural awareness, and the little girl with her foreign name, brown skin, and two tight braids in her hair had taught herself to be invisible.
all of the girls swooned including the little girl with the braids all every girl's hands shot up except hers pick me pick me please pick me they shrieked how did they have the courage thought the girl with the braids why weren't they afraid the head of the troop ignored the children with their hands up and chose the little girl with the braids.
She trembled and put her head down, tears welling up, and quietly said, no thank you, sir.
The girl sitting next to her grabbed at the opportunity and wore the costume with pride.
He asked the girl with the braids what part she wanted and she said she would be content as part of the horse's costume where she would be hidden.
She would spend years thinking about what it would have felt like to wear that purple sequined wonder of a dress.
But that day she was so frightened of the taunts of her classmates and simply of being seen.
From the very beginning of her life, she had internalized the message that her wants, dreams, and needs weren't worthy of being seen, and that she wasn't enough.
Her kind and compassionate mother's dreams had been thwarted and silenced, and the little girl felt she didn't have the right to them either.
While I still may not own a fabulous purple sequined dress, I recognize that we can pull ourselves out of the stories of the narcissistic people who defined us, silenced us, clipped our wings, taught us our dreams were grandiose, filled us with shame, and for a time, stole our joy.
that we can have love stories, success stories, and happiness, yet comprehend that there will still be dark nights of the soul and that the shadow of self-doubt remains a fellow traveler.
And we can pay it forward and let folks know that what happened was real and that they are enough.
We can begin to break intergenerational cycles of devaluation and invalidation and psychological self-harm.
Once upon a time, an eight-year-old girl sat on the floor of a stuffy cafeteria in an elementary school in New England and watched as a troupe of circus performers from New York City gave a show at her school.
It was the 1970s, an era before any kind of multicultural awareness, and the little girl with her foreign name, brown skin, and two tight braids in her hair had taught herself to be invisible.
all of the girls swooned including the little girl with the braids all every girl's hands shot up except hers pick me pick me please pick me they shrieked how did they have the courage thought the girl with the braids why weren't they afraid the head of the troop ignored the children with their hands up and chose the little girl with the braids.
She trembled and put her head down, tears welling up, and quietly said, no thank you, sir.
The girl sitting next to her grabbed at the opportunity and wore the costume with pride.
He asked the girl with the braids what part she wanted and she said she would be content as part of the horse's costume where she would be hidden.
She would spend years thinking about what it would have felt like to wear that purple sequined wonder of a dress.
But that day she was so frightened of the taunts of her classmates and simply of being seen.
From the very beginning of her life, she had internalized the message that her wants, dreams, and needs weren't worthy of being seen, and that she wasn't enough.
Her kind and compassionate mother's dreams had been thwarted and silenced, and the little girl felt she didn't have the right to them either.
While I still may not own a fabulous purple sequined dress, I recognize that we can pull ourselves out of the stories of the narcissistic people who defined us, silenced us, clipped our wings, taught us our dreams were grandiose, filled us with shame, and for a time, stole our joy.
that we can have love stories, success stories, and happiness, yet comprehend that there will still be dark nights of the soul and that the shadow of self-doubt remains a fellow traveler.
And we can pay it forward and let folks know that what happened was real and that they are enough.
We can begin to break intergenerational cycles of devaluation and invalidation and psychological self-harm.
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