The smell of motor oil and grease felt like home, even if the world tried to tell me it wasn’t. For years, I fought for my place in the auto repair industry. The snickers, the doubtful glances, and the “Are you sure you can handle this, sweetie?” comments had almost worn me down. Almost. But today, standing in the middle of my own shop, I knew every uphill battle had been worth it.
The sign above the door read Louisa’s Garage in bold letters, painted a vibrant teal that matched the walls inside. I had picked the color myself—it wasn’t the dull gray or black everyone expected from an auto shop, and that was kind of the point. This shop was going to be different. A place where honesty and respect didn’t take a backseat.
It started slow, as most dreams do. On opening day, my only customers were my mom and my best friend, Lila. Mom drove her rusty old Buick to my lot even though I told her it didn’t need fixing. “It’s about symbolism,” she said with a smile. Lila brought me coffee and a hug. “You’ll have them lining up in no time,” she promised.
By the third week, word was spreading. Mr. Jensen, the retired teacher down the block, said he heard from his nephew that I “fixed the rattle in his truck without upselling nonsense.” Word-of-mouth grew from there. People liked that I didn’t talk down to them or inflate their bills with unnecessary repairs. And I liked proving, over and over, that I knew what I was doing.
One evening, a young woman came in, hesitant and wide-eyed. She held her keys in her hand like they were a question.
“Hi,” she said softly. “My car’s making this… grinding noise? I don’t know much about cars.”
“Let’s check it out together,” I said.
Her name was Kara, and it turned out her brake pads were worn almost to the metal. She blushed when I explained it and admitted she’d put off getting it checked because she didn’t want to get “scammed” again. The last mechanic had charged her for repairs she later found out weren’t even done.
That was the moment the idea struck me. I handed Kara a flyer before she left—a flyer I hadn’t written yet, but the words were already forming in my mind: Free Car Care Workshop: For Women, By Women. Learn the Basics and Take Control.
By the time the first workshop rolled around, I had ten women in my shop—moms, college students, retirees. I taught them how to check their oil, change a tire, and recognize the signs of a bad alternator. They asked questions, took notes, and laughed as we wiped grease on our jeans together.
Over the next few months, the workshops became a regular event. The shop buzzed with the kind of energy I’d always dreamed of. Women started to show up just to chat, swap stories, and tell me how empowered they felt when they didn’t need to call for help after a flat tire. Kara came back with cookies one day and said, “I told my boss about what you’re doing. She wants to sponsor the next workshop.”
At night, after the last car left and the tools were put away, I’d sit by the window of the office, looking at the teal sign glowing in the streetlight. Louisa’s Garage. It was just a name at first, but now, it felt like a mission.
I wasn’t just fixing cars. I was fixing trust. Fixing confidence. Fixing the notion that someone like me didn’t belong here.
And if the future needed fixing, well, I had the tools for that, too.