I have a hat. It is graceful and feminine and give me a certain

In the words of Erma Bombeck, we hear the gentle laughter of truth: “I have a hat. It is graceful and feminine and gives me a certain dignity, as if I were attending a state funeral or something. Someday I may get up enough courage to wear it, instead of carrying it.” This saying, light as a feather upon the ear, bears a weight of meaning deeper than it first appears. The hat becomes a symbol — not merely of fashion or vanity, but of all the beautiful, unclaimed parts of ourselves, the dreams we dare not show, the dignities we fear to inhabit. Bombeck, with her humor that hides quiet wisdom, speaks not only of clothing, but of courage — the courage to become what one secretly is.

In ancient times, the poets would have called such a hat a crown of potential. For what is a hat but a mark of presence, a sign upon the brow declaring one’s place in the world? Yet how often we, trembling before the gaze of others, choose to carry our crown instead of wearing it. We hold our grace in our hands, ashamed to lift it high. We walk among the multitude concealing what makes us luminous, fearing mockery, judgment, or the weight of expectation. Thus, the hat becomes the emblem of our unfulfilled bravery, our postponed selves.

Consider the story of Eleanor Roosevelt, who in her youth was shy and uncertain, uncomfortable in public speech. She once said that she had to do “the thing she thought she could not do.” When she first stood before great crowds, her voice shook, her heart trembled — yet she spoke. She did not carry her “hat” anymore; she wore it before the world. And in doing so, she transformed not only herself but the fate of countless others. From fear was born strength; from self-doubt, an enduring dignity. So too, every human soul bears a hat — a quiet nobility waiting for courage to crown it.

There is tenderness in Bombeck’s jest, for she speaks as one who understands the frailty of hearts. The graceful and feminine hat is not pride, but poise; not vanity, but self-respect. To wear it is to accept one’s worth, to acknowledge that one is as deserving of dignity as any queen or scholar or saint. Yet many wander through life carrying their worth like an ornament they have not earned. They fear that wearing it would be arrogance, when in truth it would be honor to the divine spark within.

In every generation, there are those who stand trembling at the edge of becoming — artists who will not show their paintings, lovers who will not speak their hearts, thinkers who will not share their thoughts. They, too, carry their hats. The world waits for their courage. And when at last they dare to lift it to their heads, to walk upright in the full light of their being, the world itself becomes more beautiful. The act of courage — however small — is always contagious.

Therefore, let this be the lesson passed down: Wear your hat. Do not let your dignity remain folded in the corner of your spirit. Do not wait for permission to stand tall. For the day you wear it, the air around you will change; others will feel it, and something sacred will stir. You will not need to explain yourself. Your very bearing will speak — of grace, of authenticity, of quiet might.

And so, child of tomorrow, remember this teaching: when you feel that you are not enough, when you think your beauty, your strength, or your voice is too much for the world — it is then that you must wear the hat. It is then that you must walk into the sunlight, not as one attending a funeral, but as one reborn. Carry your fears if you must, but wear your courage. The hat waits for you — and when you wear it, you shall finally know your own dignity.