You Belong Anywhere You Want to Be

Tina Knowles aka "Badass Teeny B"

"You belong anywhere you want to be" - Tina Knowles. 

When I heard this from Tina, I was reminded of what I already know because sometimes it slips my mind that this is true. I was encouraged and inspired by her story and the legacy she created for herself that ultimately compounded interest in the legacy of her daughters'.

What gets me about Tina's story isn't just the triumph. It's the gap between what she created and how she was treated while creating it. The costumes she made for Destiny's Child are in the Smithsonian now. Those metallic coordinated sets, those military-inspired pieces — designers still reference that work. Fashion students study those looks.

But while she was making them? While she was staying up sewing, walking into industry spaces with her big hair and her country accent? They told her she didn't belong there.

When Beyoncé wore one of Tina's gowns to the Oscars—this stunning black and gold origami piece—the red carpet went crazy. Then Beyoncé said "my mom made this" and the story changed. They said it looked like she'd taken fabric from drapes.

Tina said something about that moment that I keep thinking about: "It was so defeating because I was so excited because I was like finally they accept it and they made fun of it."

That's what I want to talk about. Not just the success story we see now, but what it cost to build it.

Where It Started

Galveston, Texas, 1959. Holy Rosary Catholic School sits across the street from the Beyoncé family home. Little Celestine Ann Beyoncé—who goes by Tina—is five years old. First day of school.

Sister Fidelis looks at this pretty, poor Black child and says: "You don't belong here. If you only knew."

I need you to sit with that for a second. Five years old. Your first teacher tells you that you have no right to occupy space.

The nuns kept telling her they wanted to "break the evil spirit" in her. Called her vain, selfish, mean. There's this story that broke my heart: they asked if she had a white dress for a ceremony. Her mother stayed up making one from remnant fabric. When Tina brought it to school, they took it from her and gave it to another child. Then they shamed her for not wanting to give away what she treasured.

At 71, Tina told Oprah: "It was the source of my insecurity my whole life is not belonging or people making up their mind about you before they even know you."

But here's what I find fascinating: It didn't break her. It made her a fighter. She became "Badass Teeny B:" the girl who talked back, who questioned authority, who refused to shrink.

The Industry Did the Same Thing

Fast forward to the 1990s. Destiny's Child is rising. Tina is creating their entire visual identity. Revolutionary looks that said these young Black girls from Houston were polished, professional, unified, undeniable.

But when she walked into those spaces? "People wouldn't talk to me," she remembers. Record executives complained. Fashion magazines mocked them.

Then she said something that made me pause the interview: "It was also a thing of not wanting to stand out...I would let people say things because I think I thought I deserve to be not on their level back then."

You don't belong here, internalized. That wound from childhood had become belief.

But She Put Her Whole Self In Anyway

This is what I admire most about Tina. What makes me study her approach. She put her whole self in anyway.

She fought lighting directors who made her girls look "gray and ashy" on stage. She confronted producers who wanted to smoke weed around her teenage daughters. She stood up to executives. She protected fiercely, even when she couldn't demand that respect for herself.

And through it all? The corny jokes. The little dances. The way she'd take the free Galveston ferry as a child and call it "our yacht," then take teenage Destiny's Child on that same ferry to sing. The way she interrupts serious conversations to shimmy or crack a joke that makes you groan and laugh simultaneously.

That's not frivolous. That's survival. That's refusing to let them take your joy along with your dignity.

She stayed in a marriage with constant infidelity for 31 years because she wanted her daughters to have their father. She took her daughters to therapy in the 1990s when everyone said it would "make those girls crazy" because she saw division forming. She made Uncle Johnny — gay from age three in 1950s Louisiana — feel so celebrated that he never hid his light, and that safety created space for him to pass his house music love to Beyoncé, which became Renaissance.

Every decision was about creating for her daughters what she didn't have: the certainty that they belonged.

The Shift at 70

Michelle Obama asked her: "Why does it take us so long as women to own our wisdom?"

Tina's answer hit me: She didn't think her story was "worthy" of a memoir. Even after everything she built, created, survived. She didn't think anyone would want to hear it.

At 70 years old, Tina Knowles learned that she is enough.

"It's something about turning 70," she told Oprah, "that all of my mistakes and things that the shame that I had about a lot of things...I don't give a fuck anymore about what somebody thinks of me."

But the lesson she passed to her daughters came earlier: "You deserve to be anywhere that you wanted to be...people will not always welcome you but you got to welcome yourself."

That phrase stopped me: You got to welcome yourself.

That's the transformation. From "you don't belong here" to "I belong anywhere I want to be." Not waiting for permission. Not earning the right. Just deciding you belong and moving accordingly.

When Beyoncé finally won Album of the Year at the Grammys, Tina didn't say she felt proud. She said: "I felt like it was fair."

She connected it straight back to that classroom: "When she went to that award show, she was not treated well and it was very much put me back at Holy Rosary with somebody saying you don't belong here...you're not good enough."

The album became Beyoncé saying what her mother taught her: "I took my seat at the table whether you like it or not."

What This Means for the Rest of Us

Here's what Tina Knowles represents to me: she shows us that talent doesn't protect you from being told you don't belong. That you can create iconic work and still internalize that you're not good enough. That the journey from wound to wisdom can take decades.

But most importantly, she shows us what happens when you stop waiting to be welcomed and decide to welcome yourself.

When people ask what makes her proudest about her daughters, she doesn't talk about Grammys or tours. She says: "When they do something that's not about entertainment, but when they do a charitable thing and they are good people...I just get so full and so proud when they respect people."

That's legacy. Not the accolades. The character. The kindness. The choice to be good people who respect people.

She named her daughter Beyoncé to preserve their family name — cultural preservation as resistance. She made Uncle Johnny feel safe enough that his authenticity rippled into Renaissance. She took her daughters to therapy before anyone else was doing that.

This is what it looks like when someone decides the wound stops with them.

What You Need to Take From This

So here's what I'm holding onto from Tina's story, what I'm reminded of when I forget:

You don't need permission to occupy space. You need the audacity to welcome yourself.

If someone made you feel like you didn't belong—they were protecting their position, not revealing your truth.

If your work got dismissed—that often says more about power dynamics than quality.

If you look at your accomplishments and still feel like an imposter—that's not your personal failing. That's what the system was designed to do.

Tina Knowles is 72, cracking corny jokes, doing little dances, wearing her big hair unapologetically. She's claiming space she was told she didn't belong in. She's living proof that you can start from "you don't belong" and end at "I belong anywhere I want to be."

That transformation is available. Not because it's easy. Not because the systems changed. But because liberation is a choice you make every day: to welcome yourself even when the world doesn't. To believe you're enough even when the evidence suggests otherwise.

Walk in like Tina. With your authentic self. With your corny jokes and your homemade

masterpieces and your belief that the people coming after you deserve better.

Walk in like you belong because you decided, and that decision is the only permission you need.

The door is already open.

Welcome yourself.

Until next time,

Tricky Sol