The Mean Girl Grows Up

The year was 1995. I’m assuming it was spring because we were on a fourth-grade field trip to Lincoln, Nebraska. It's a traditional trip for fourth-graders, as Nebraska history is taught this year in our school curriculum.

My family didn’t travel to Lincoln very often. We were closer to Omaha and Kansas City, so we spent more time there, and going to Lincoln always felt like a treat.

I remember sitting on that school bus, looking out the window as we drove down a road that, strangely enough, is now part of my everyday life. There in the distance was the University of Nebraska, more specifically, Memorial Stadium. I had been there for football games before. To a nine-year-old Nebraska girl, it was enormous, exciting; it represented something bigger than the little world I knew. And with all the confidence of a child who hadn't yet learned she needed to qualify her dreams, I said to the girls around me: “I’m going to go there someday.”

I wasn’t bragging, I wasn’t asking their opinion, I wasn’t presenting my five-year academic plan; I was nine, I was dreaming. Immediately, a girl sitting near me said:

“You have to get good grades to go there, Carla.” Thirty-one years later, I can still hear her say it.

I Never Went There

Here's the funny thing: I didn't go to the University of Nebraska. By the time college came around, a huge university wasn't even what I wanted. So this isn't one of those stories where somebody tells a little girl she can't do something and twenty years later she stands triumphantly in front of the exact building and says, “LOOK AT ME NOW.” That's not the story.

Honestly, UNL isn't even the point. The point is that a nine-year-old girl looked out a window, saw something that made her excited about her future, and said:

I think I could, and another little girl immediately responded with: I'm not sure you can. And somehow, I remembered it.....For 31 years 🤯

I've wondered why, because I certainly don't believe one comment from another nine-year-old girl determined the trajectory of my life. She was a child too and probably doesn't even remember saying it, but I do. And I think I finally understand why; her voice eventually became one voice in a much larger chorus.

I Wasn't the Smart Girl

School was hard for me, really hard. I wasn't the girl people expected to become some great academic success. Graduating high school was an absolute battle.

The beginning of college was a disaster, and somewhere along the way, I became very aware of what other people thought I was capable of. Or wasn't capable of.

I talk about this much more deeply in my book because, looking back, I can see how much of my life was spent becoming fluent in everyone else's perception of me. What do they think? What do they see? Am I doing this right? Am I smart enough? Am I talented enough? Am I too much? Am I not enough?

The strange part was that while I struggled tremendously in some areas, there were other areas where I was incredibly gifted; music was one of them.

Fun Fact: I can sing, like really sing. I had an opportunity to sing at the University of Nebraska at Omaha under a renowned director. I had opportunities to sing at other really good schools too. There were doors in front of me, talent inside of me, and here were dreams. But somehow, I already felt like I would fail before I ever got out of the gate.

That's such a strange thing to explain. To know somewhere deep inside that you have something special while simultaneously believing you're probably incapable of doing much with it. So I pushed, and pushed, and pushed. Eventually I earned an associate degree, then a bachelor's degree, and then a master's degree. Sometimes I wonder what exactly I was trying to accomplish. Was I pursuing something or was I proving something? Was I trying to prove everyone else wrong? Was I trying to prove myself wrong? Probably all of it; I honestly don't know, I just know I did it. Maybe when you've spent enough of your life feeling like you aren't capable, achievement starts becoming evidence.

See? I can do hard things. I can finish. I'm not stupid. You were wrong about me.

But there's another part of this story: I wasn't only hurt in the places where I struggled. Sometimes girls were cruelest to me in the places where I shined.

The Dance Studio

I also danced growing up, and I was pretty good at it too. I can say that now without minimizing it; I was really good. I loved my dance teacher, and she loved me. Honestly? I was probably a teacher's pet. There, I said it. 🤣

She saw my talent, encouraged me, believed in me, and gave me opportunities to use what I had. And all these years later, she and I still have a close relationship.

But some girls in those classes could be incredibly mean to me. I remember one girl in particular and the cruelty from her and her friends; wow, it still hurts me when I think about it.

And here's what is so interesting to me now: she was talented too.

This girl was an athlete, a real athlete. And let me tell you, I would have loved to have had some of what she had. I was athletic but not like that with sports. She had something I didn't, and I had something she didn't. Looking at it now, isn't that beautiful?

Imagine if we had understood that. Imagine if instead of looking across the room and seeing competition, little girls were taught to look at one another and think:

Wow. Look what she can do. Because her athletic ability didn't take away my musical ability. My relationship with our dance teacher didn't take away her talent. My success didn't require her failure, and her success didn't require mine; there was room for both of us. But somehow, comparison convinced us otherwise.

I don't know what was happening inside of her. Maybe she was jealous, felt overlooked, or simply didn't like me. Maybe my relationship with our teacher bothered her, and I am certain things were happening in her life that I knew absolutely nothing about. I can't tell her story; I can only tell mine, and I remember the cruelty.

So Which Was It?

This is the part that hits me differently at 40. In one environment, I learned:

You're probably not good enough. Then in another environment, when I actually was good at something, I learned: Don't shine too brightly.

Think about that for a second 🤔. Don't dream too big, but don't waste your potential. Be confident, but don't think too highly of yourself.

Be talented, but don't get too much attention for it. Speak up, but don't be too loud. Be yourself, but not like that. Don't be too much, but whatever you do... Don't be not enough.

How exactly is a little girl supposed to solve that equation? Maybe she starts reading the room; she becomes really good at studying people's reactions; she learns to adjust herself depending on who is standing in front of her. Maybe before she allows herself to be proud of something, she looks around to make sure everyone else is comfortable with it. And maybe she becomes fluent in everyone else.....I did.

The Girls Grow Up

Eventually little girls become women. The school bus disappears, the dance studio changes, the hallways are gone, but insecurity doesn't magically disappear when we graduate. Sometimes the mean girl grows up too.

I've encountered women throughout my adult life who simply didn't like me, and that's okay. Everyone isn't going to like me; I'm not crying over that. I am a vibrant woman; I wear my heart on my sleeve, I talk a lot, I'm bouncy, I'm passionate, I'm loud, I'm emotional, I'm talented, I'm fun, I love people hard, I can be a lot, and I actually like those things about myself now. But I also have enough self-awareness to know I haven't always been easy.

I'm sure there were times growing up when I wasn't kind. I'm certain I handled emotions poorly and I'm sure I've hurt people. I'm positive there are stories involving me where I'm not the hero. That's part of growing up too—being able to look backward without rewriting history to make yourself innocent in every chapter.

But I can acknowledge my own shortcomings while also acknowledging something else: There were women who intentionally tried to make me smaller. And there were times when it worked.

One Woman Almost Wrecked Me

A few years ago, I experienced this on a level I had never experienced before. There was a woman who seemed to absolutely hate me, and the strangest part was that she barely knew me. It felt like she had made it her mission to destroy me, and because of the job I was in, I didn't engage. People told me they couldn't believe how well I handled it. I had people tell me I was practically a saint for the way I responded—or didn't respond, but they didn't see me at home.

I cried, replayed conversations, and wondered what on earth I had done.

What did I say? What did she hear? Did I unknowingly hurt her? Why does someone who barely knows me hate me this much?

And little by little, I started questioning pieces of myself. A grown woman, a wife, a mother, a woman with three college degrees, a woman who had built a life, a woman who had survived things much harder than someone's opinion. And there I was again, that little girl on the school bus. Except I understand something now that I didn't understand then. That woman didn't create the wound; she found it.

Hurt People Hurt People

For most of my life, when someone rejected me, my first instinct was to turn inward. What's wrong with me? Now I try to ask a different question too:

What might be hurting inside of them?

That doesn't excuse cruelty. Understanding why someone might hurt you does not mean volunteering to continue being hurt; forgiveness doesn't mean unlimited access, and compassion doesn't mean living without boundaries. But sometimes another person's treatment of you says much more about what's happening inside of them than it says about you.

I couldn't understand that as a little girl. Honestly, I didn't fully understand it as a younger woman either, but I understand it better now. Because when you don't know who you are, another person's confidence can feel threatening. Her beauty can make you question yours. Her success can make you feel like you're failing.

Her talent can expose something you wish you had pursued. Her happiness can irritate a place in you that isn't happy. Her freedom can confront something inside of you that still feels trapped, and instead of asking ourselves why another woman creates that reaction in us, sometimes it's easier to decide she's the problem.

So we diminish her, we gossip about her, we exclude her, we make the little comment, we find the flaw, we make sure she doesn't get too confident, and we remind her that she has to get good grades before she can go there.

Same wound. Different school bus.

And Yes, I Believe There's a Spiritual Side to This

I've heard it said: The devil doesn't attack what he already owns.

I don't believe every woman who doesn't like me was sent by Satan; sometimes people clash, misunderstand one another, and behave badly. Sometimes I'm the one who needs to apologize, but I absolutely believe the enemy knows where we're vulnerable. And boy does he know where to aim.

For me, rejection has always known exactly where to land. So what better way to make me question who God created me to be than to use another person's rejection? That's a pretty effective tactic because the attack isn't really: She doesn't like you. The attack becomes: See? There's something wrong with you.

You're too much.

You're not enough.

People don't like you.

Tone it down.

Stop talking.

Don't shine so brightly.

Who do you think you are?

And if I'm not careful, suddenly I'm fluent in everyone else's voice again instead of listening to God's.

But Here's Where My Story Has Changed

I don't want to spend the rest of my life identifying jealous women, keeping a record of everyone who underestimated me, proving the girls from my childhood wrong, and I certainly don't want to become the very thing that hurt me. I want to be the woman who sees another woman shining and says:

“Look at you. Keep going.”

I want to celebrate the woman who is more successful than me. The woman who is more beautiful than me. The woman who can walk into a gym and do things my body has never considered doing. The woman whose business explodes. The woman whose marriage is thriving. The woman whose children are succeeding. The woman whose gifts are completely different from mine. Because her light doesn't dim mine and mine doesn't have to dim hers.

I think about the women I grew up with now, and my class produced some incredibly talented, strong, successful women, and I am proud of them, genuinely.

Life isn't easy, growing up isn't easy, marriage isn't easy, motherhood isn't easy, careers aren't easy, and figuring out who you are isn't easy. We've all lived entire stories that the little girls sitting together in those classrooms couldn't possibly have imagined. I don't need their success to be smaller for mine to matter, and I don't need to rewrite our childhood and make myself the victim and everyone else the villain. We were little girls trying to figure out who we were, but now we're women and women can choose differently.

If I Could Get Back on That Bus

Sometimes I imagine sitting beside that nine-year-old version of myself. She looks out the window, sees Memorial Stadium, and her eyes get big; she says:

“I'm going to go there someday.”

I wouldn't tell her she definitely will, because she won't. Her dreams are going to change. She's going to discover that a huge university isn't what she wants, and discover music and opportunities she can't even imagine yet. She's going to struggle terribly in school, stumble through the beginning of college, earn an associate degree, then a bachelor's, and then a master's. She's going to spend years trying to prove things that eventually she will realize never needed proving.

So I'd just look at her and say: “Maybe you will.”

Dream, Carla... you're allowed to. You don't have to know how you're going to get there yet. You don't need a nine-year-old girl's permission. You don't need a teacher's permission. You don't need a woman's approval. You don't even need everyone to understand what God placed inside of you. And then I think I'd turn to the other little girl because maybe she needed someone too.

I'd tell her: You don't have to make another girl smaller to feel bigger. Then I'd go find those little girls in the dance studio and tell them the same thing. You don't have to be threatened because the teacher sees something special in her. There is something special in you too.

One of you can dance, one can sing, one can run, one can lead, one can create, one can solve equations, one can light up an entire room, and one can quietly change the life of the person sitting beside her.

There is room for all of you. Maybe that's what I wish we'd been taught.

Not simply, Don't be a mean girl, something deeper. Another girl's gifts are not evidence of your deficiencies. And your gifts are not something you need to apologize for either.

You don't have to shrink so she can shine.

She doesn't have to fail so you can succeed.

You don't have to become less.

You don't have to prove you're more.

You don't have to spend your entire life solving the impossible equation: How do I become enough without becoming too much?

Maybe the answer is that I was never supposed to solve it; maybe I was supposed to stop asking everyone else who I was in the first place, because little girls become women, and I want to be the kind of woman who teaches the little girls coming behind us: Shine. And when the girl beside you starts shining too? Cheer for her.

Reflection

Maybe as you read this, you saw yourself somewhere in my story. Maybe you were the little girl who learned to shrink, or someone made you feel like you weren't smart enough, talented enough, pretty enough, likable enough, or capable enough. Maybe you learned to read the room before you allowed yourself to shine, and even now, as a grown woman, someone else's rejection can send you right back to being that little girl wondering: What's wrong with me?

But maybe you recognized yourself somewhere else too. Maybe you've been the girl who made the comment, or another woman's confidence has irritated you. Her success has made you question your own. You've joined the conversation you shouldn't have joined, withheld the compliment you wanted to give, secretly felt satisfaction when someone you envied struggled, or tried to make another woman a little smaller because something about her made you feel small. I've probably stood on both sides of this story; most of us have.

So maybe the question isn't simply, Who were the mean girls in my life?

Maybe it's: Whose voice am I still carrying? Where have I made myself smaller because I was afraid of someone else's reaction? What gifts have I dismissed because someone once made me believe I wasn't capable?

And then the harder questions: Whose light makes me uncomfortable?

Is there another woman I've judged because something about her touches an insecurity in me? Have I ever tried to dim someone else's light instead of asking God to heal whatever her light exposed in me?

We don't have to stay nine years old forever. We don't have to keep replaying the school bus, the dance studio, the locker room, the lunch table, the workplace, the church group, the friendship, or whatever room taught us we were too much or not enough, and we don't have to pass it on.

There is room for her, and there is room for you. God did not accidentally give her those gifts, and He didn't accidentally give you yours. Maybe healing looks like finally believing both.

Prayer

Father,

Thank You for the little girl I was before I learned to question everything You put inside of me. Thank You for every gift, every dream, every part of my personality, and every piece of me that You created with intention.

Forgive me for the times I have allowed other people's voices to become louder than Yours. For every you're not enough, every you're too much, and every who do you think you are? Every word I've carried long after the person who said it probably forgot. Help me release them and heal the places in me where rejection still knows exactly where to land. Show me where I have confused someone else's opinion with my identity. Teach me to stop shrinking the person You created me to be just to make someone else comfortable.

But Father, search my heart too. Show me where jealousy, comparison, insecurity, or hurt has caused me to look at another woman as competition. Forgive me for the times I've judged when I should have celebrated. For the times I've withheld encouragement. For the conversations I shouldn't have participated in. For every time someone else's light exposed an insecurity in me, and I blamed her instead of bringing that insecurity to You. Heal that too.

Make me a woman who celebrates other women freely because I know who I am in You. When she shines, teach me to cheer; when she succeeds, let me celebrate; when she possesses a gift I don't have, let me recognize Your creativity instead of my deficiency. And when You call me to shine, give me the courage not to shrink.

I don't want to spend another day trying to figure out how to be enough without becoming too much. I want to become exactly who You created me to be.

Help me hear Your voice above all the others and help me become the kind of woman who makes it easier for the little girls coming behind us to hear Yours too.

In Jesus' name,

Amen.