Do you ever stop feeling like you don’t belong?
*names, dates and other personal details have been changed to protect people’s anonymity. This isn’t about who did what, when and where, but about how it made me feel and the way this feeling has been experienced by so many of us.
Growing up in a small town meant living with the same classmates for nine years. It was suffocating at times, so when I met a new girl named Ashley in 11th grade, I was delighted. A new friend felt like fresh air, like jumping off the dock on the first hot day of summer.
Ashley wouldn’t be the first friend to use me as a step stool for her confidence, but she was the first to make me feel shame, awkwardness, and deep confusion. My greatest detriment as a child was missing social cues. I never understood why someone would be mean to me. I was nice to them, after all. But middle school and high school girls didn’t always work that way.
One day, our class took a field trip to a nearby university. It was more than a walking tour. We would stay overnight in the dorms, sit in a lecture hall, and even go to a dance. From a young age, I had been taught that college was my only path to success, so as a straight-A student, I took this trip seriously. I was thrilled Ashley and her friends would be there, too.
That excitement didn’t last. When I bought a school hoodie to fit in, they mocked me. I had never liked hoodies, but wanted to belong, so I squeezed into a size small. As a girl who always felt like the “big one,” I thought wearing smaller clothes might prove I was smaller. The $40 sweatshirt was a huge investment, like buying a golden ticket to acceptance. But instead of fitting in, I became the butt of their jokes. I can still hear Ashley saying, “What the heck did you do?” Her words cut so deep that, even now at 33, I still remember the sting.
Later that night, we walked as a group across campus toward the dance. For once, it felt good to be included, to walk in step with others instead of alone. But as we crossed the quad, Ashley and her friends suddenly sprinted away, leaving me behind. I shuffled as fast as I could, but shame and humiliation washed over me as I realized they hadn’t been running toward fun. They had been running away from me. I was left to cross the green in the dark, once again the fat girl who couldn’t keep up.
The sting of betrayal flooded my veins, poisoning every thought of her.
A few years later, we were preparing to graduate high school. Ashley threw a graduation party I could mention here, but what overshadows it all is a memory that still makes me wince. One night, sitting in her beat-up truck, I confessed my fears that I might be pregnant with my then-boyfriend’s baby. It was one of the most vulnerable admissions I had ever made. Later that evening, at a local Applebee’s with friends, nausea hit me hard. As I quietly struggled, Ashley rolled her eyes in front of everyone and snapped, “Cut it out, Kayce, you’re not pregnant.” Her words landed like a slap, stripping me of dignity and turning my private fear into a public dismissal.
But my few negative memories with Ashley could never be the whole picture of who she was or who she became as an adult. After all, Ashley was the only popular girl I knew who sought out to say hello to everyone. She had a way of making even the most painfully awkward students feel loved in the glow of her brief attention. Her parents were divorced, and she seemed to be alone much of the time. Looking back, it seems like she raised herself. That painful loneliness could be the reason she always wanted others like me to feel included, and maybe the reason stepping on us felt good too. After all, don’t hurt people hurt people?
As the adult who still carries the memories of the pain she caused a teenage version of me, I’ve learned to alchemize those feelings by addressing them through my writing. My work as an event planner and somatic teacher wouldn’t be as powerful if I hadn’t had experiences like these to overcome. I wish I could forget about these things. I really do. I think they haunt me because they still hold a lesson I need to absorb. Maybe there are places where I could be kinder, softer, more inclusive on a true level. Because when you’ve grown accustomed to being judged and left out, it’s easy to become the new Ashley in the room, ready to decide who is in and who is out as a way to protect yourself.
It’s funny. We think this behavior only happens in high school, but it follows us into the workplace, into our industries, and into our communities. I love to create events, retreats, and dinners where people can come together and feel joy. I think this is why, because we need more spaces curated to let us come exactly as we are. And maybe, if I’m honest, it’s because I need a place to come exactly as I am too. The big girl who loves to cook, eat, and dance. The once teen mother who still achieved her dreams, even if college came later. My hope is that by accepting myself more fully, the spaces I create will become places where no one has to feel like the girl left behind. Maybe the true measure of who we are is not how we fit in, but how we make space for others to belong.
These experiences and many more have been the motivation to invent spaces where we all belong, where we are all standing as apart of the circle, where we are all in.
It’s my hope you’ll join me at one of the petite retreats, girls nights, workshops and dinners I’m creating and hosting. Because at my place, everyone belongs at the table.