I was in fifth grade when it happened. I didn’t have many friends, so when Katie approached me with one of those paper fortune-telling games that had been making the rounds in our classroom, I felt a small spark of hope, maybe this was my chance to belong.
The game was simple: answer a few silly questions, and it would tell your future. I don’t remember most of the questions, but one has stayed with me.
“Are you pretty?”
I said, “Sure,” casually, not thinking much of it.
Katie immediately laughed, loudly and right in my face.
“You think you’re pretty?!”
The whole class joined in.
I laughed too. Then I quickly added, “I was just joking, of course.”
But the truth was, I did think I was pretty.
And in that moment, I learned it wasn’t safe to say so out loud.
That was the day I found out that I was ugly. Before that day, I really didn’t know. I wasn’t walking through the world thinking I was beautiful, either, but I wasn’t thinking about it at all. I was just being. Drawing. Climbing trees. Laughing hard. Watching movies and losing myself in them. My body was just the vessel I lived in. My face was just my face. None of it felt up for debate.
But after that comment, I started to see myself differently. My reflection became something to manage. My differences, things I hadn’t noticed before suddenly stood out. I wasn’t into the popular things the other girls loved, and now it felt like proof that something was wrong with me. I looked for all the reasons I didn’t fit. And I found them. Over and over.
That comment reinforced something I didn’t yet have words for: the ache of being different. I already knew I didn’t fit in at home, but I hadn’t realized I didn’t quite fit in at school either. I was outside the norm, and for a long time, all I wanted was to be inside it.
To blend in.
To disappear into the crowd.
To feel safe.
It took years, many of them, but I’ve come to see that moment with new eyes. Because eventually, I stopped wanting to fit in. I began to treasure the ways I’m different. I started to see how much sameness had been pushed on us, how “popular” often just meant digestible, polished, and quiet. Regurgitated versions of the same person. I wanted none of that.
Now, I seek out what’s strange and offbeat. I crave the soft rebellion of not following trends. I don’t really care if I wear the wrong jeans or what socks are in style. I love that my voice and choices are my own. And strangely, I can thank Katie for that. Her words hurt, yes, but they cracked something open. They sent me on a journey toward rejecting a culture that rewards uniformity and teaches us to mistrust what makes us unique.
I forgive her. She was a kid, too. Probably trying to figure out her own place in a world that teaches us far too early to rank and measure and compare.
The truth is, no one is born ashamed of their face or body. That shame is given to us. But we don’t have to carry it forever.
If someone told you once that you were ugly, or unworthy, or too much, or not enough, I hope you know it wasn’t the truth. It was their fear, not your identity.
You are so much more than what they saw.
And your differentness? That is a strength, something to lean into. It might even make you the most interesting person at the table.