by Trisha Jacobson
They called me "Torch." Not because I lit up our classroom with charisma. Not because I was setting trends or chasing glory.
Nope.
My grade school classmates called me Torch because I blushed easily. My cheeks would turn red in an instant, and without fail, the kids would yell, “FLAME ON!” like I was some kind of Marvel sidekick waiting to explode. They were laughing at me for something I had no control over.
I hated the attention, the embarrassment, the sting of being called out just for feeling something. But here’s the plot twist I never saw coming:
I am the damn Torch.
Perhaps on some subconscious level I took “Flame On” literally. They thought they were teasing me—but really, they were connecting me with my power. Because I do light things up. I do burn through the nonsense. And yes, when something’s unjust, out of alignment, or straight-up dehumanizing … I bring the fire!
That nickname actually became my fuel.
They tried to make me feel small for being sensitive—but it turns out, sensitivity is where my power lives.
That heat in my face? That was passion rising.
That discomfort? A sign I was alive, awake, and connected to something deeper.
So now, decades later, when I speak up, coach, write, lead, or challenge systems that harm … I do it with the fire of that little girl whose cheeks turned red.
I do it for her. I am her. And I say, "Flame on." Always!
Want to share your own reclaiming story? Tell me—what nickname or label once made you shrink… that now fuels your fire? Let’s name it and burn the shame together.
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