The story

I bought my first Jeep when I was 19.

A 1998 TJ. I was working two jobs, not in college, and honestly just trying to figure out where I fit in. What pulled me in wasn’t even the Jeep itself at first, it was the community around it. I saw people who had something in common, who showed up for each other, and I wanted that.

So I dove in. I went to meetups, joined forums, asked questions, learned as I went. For a while, it felt like I had found exactly what I was looking for.

Then it turned into something else.

The same space that was supposed to be a community became a place where I was constantly torn apart. People I had never met were posting photos of me, talking about me, making up things about me. It escalated to the point where I was seeing pictures of myself driving around, parked at work, living my life, and strangers were commenting on it. Threats, harassment, things that no one should have to deal with, especially at that age, living alone for the first time and just trying to build something for myself.

It got bad enough that I considered selling my Jeep completely. Not because I didn’t love it, but because I couldn’t understand why people could be that cruel over something that was supposed to bring people together.

So I left.

And instead of trying to fit into a space that didn’t want me there, I created my own.

I started a Facebook page called Michigan Jeep Girl where I could just post my Jeep, what I was working on, what I was learning. It was just me figuring things out as I went and having real conversations, and it started blowing up faster than I ever expected. What made it different was simple. Nobody was judged for what they knew or didn’t know. It became a place where people could ask questions, share ideas, and actually enjoy being part of something without getting torn apart for it.

I started posting photos and videos of myself actually working on my vehicle, because that’s what I was doing in real life anyway.

And people showed up.

Conversations started happening again, but this time they were real. People were helping each other, sharing ideas, talking about builds, modifications, all the things I originally loved about the community.

Somewhere along the way, I wanted to wear it. I wanted something that represented what I was part of. So I started looking for apparel and realized nothing really felt right. A lot of it looked rushed, generic, like it was made just to sell, not to mean anything.

So I tried to make my own.

I started a small brand called 13mm Apparel, named after the one socket you always seem to need on a TJ. At the time, I had no idea what I was doing. I was working full time, learning everything from scratch, and honestly, it didn’t go anywhere.

But the idea never left.

Years later, after everything I had been through and everything I had built on my own, I decided to try again. And this time, I did it differently.

Because one thing I never forgot was what people used to say about me.

That I didn’t belong here.

That I didn’t know what I was doing.

That I was just “fakewrenching” for attention.

That name stuck with me.

So I took it back.

FakeWrenching isn’t just a name, it’s a reminder of where I started and everything people said I would never be. 

It’s proof that they were wrong.

What started as me just trying to find a place to belong turned into something so much bigger. A community. A brand. A space where people can connect, learn, and feel like they’re part of something real.

FW, for me, is more than just working on a vehicle. It’s growth. It’s resilience. It’s building something out of everything that tried to tear you down.