Weird Girl Who Passed as Popular
Growing up, I was never really the most popular girl in school.
I hung out with popular people. I was invited to parties. I dated a guy on the football team. I did my hair and makeup every morning before school. Around seventh grade, I “turned pretty,” and from the outside, it probably looked like I fit in just fine.
But I never felt like I did.
I was invited, but I was not chosen. I was around, but never truly included. The main popular girls were never my best friends. I was adjacent to popularity, not rooted in it.
I always felt socially off. Weird. Anxious. Like I was playing a role I didn’t understand the script for.
I would show up to the parties with a couple friends, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not turn the weirdness off. My personality felt like it gave me away. I always felt like the odd girl who somehow slipped into the group without ever earning a real place there.
I was regularly stealing clothes just to fit in, because there was no way my parents could afford the brands and outfits everyone else wore. We were on food stamps. I couldn’t afford to go to the movies with my friends. I couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard I tried.
I remember one moment so clearly. A group of friends and I stopped by my house before going out, and someone said, “You live here? I thought you were one of those rich, spoiled girls.”
I felt my stomach drop.
From the outside, I had convinced people I belonged. On the inside, I was constantly terrified of being exposed.
I lived in a place where most families had money. Pilots, golf carts, big houses. Everyone looked polished. Everyone belonged. And there I was, trying desperately to blend in while my real life was unraveling behind closed doors.
I was a cheerleader, and I truly loved it. It was the one place I felt almost normal.
Until it wasn’t.
After ninth grade, I entered foster care. For a while, I attended one high school as everything around me shifted yet again. Eventually, my grandparents adopted me out of the system, and I moved to a small town in North Carolina. The schools there were nothing like Atlanta. Smaller. Tighter. Everyone knew everyone. I went from being one of many to being immediately noticeable, immediately different. I stood out in ways I didn’t want to, and blending in became harder than it had ever been.
During my junior year, I went to a party in a neighboring town with two friends. I was the designated driver. I did not drink. I stayed sober the entire night while both girls I was with drank and eventually went off with guys.
When the party ended, we all left together.
We went back to my house.
They spent the night.
We slept.
We woke up the next morning like normal teenagers do after a party.
Nothing felt off. Nothing was said. Nothing seemed wrong.
I even drove one of the girls home myself.
The next day at school, I was pulled aside by the resource officer.
I remember the hallway. The look on his face. The way my stomach dropped before I even knew why.
He told me one of the girls was accusing me of drugging her.
Roofying her.
I was stunned. I had done everything right. I was sober. I got them home safely. I made sure everyone slept. I made sure she got home.
None of that mattered.
An investigation started. Rumors spread faster than facts. I was the new girl. I was from Atlanta. A little edgier. Not quite as polished as everyone else. And suddenly, I became the easiest villain in the room.
I was kicked off the cheerleading team.
The girl refused to take a drug test. Weed was already in her system. Nothing was proven. But the town believed her anyway. Her mother was a teacher. She was quiet. Vulnerable. And I was disposable.
I was ostracized. My gymnastics coach stopped coaching me. Adults who were supposed to protect me never pulled me aside, never asked what happened, never listened.
I was told that if I didn’t retaliate, if I didn’t fight her or cause problems, I could try out again the following year.
So I swallowed it.
By the time tryouts came around again, I had already started spiraling. Smoking weed. Hanging out with the wrong people. That situation broke something in me. I eventually made the team again.
And then I quit.
Mentally, they had already lost me.
What was the point of doing the right thing if no one believed me anyway?
That was when I started numbing myself out again. Tattoos. Partying. Checking out emotionally. If I was already labeled, I might as well live up to it.
I went to seven different high schools.
Some due to foster care. Some due to moving. Some because I skipped school during my rebellious phase. Constantly being the new girl teaches you how to read a room quickly, how to blend just enough, and how not to get attached.
It also robs you of a stable sense of self.
I never learned how to keep close friendships because I never stayed anywhere long enough. Just when I would start to feel comfortable, my life would implode. Or I would disappear. Or I would be gone without explanation.
Looking back, I think people sensed something was off. I was pretty, yes. But I was carrying things far heavier than what most teenagers carry. I wasn’t carefree. I wasn’t innocent. I didn’t know how to be.
I looked like I belonged. But internally, I felt disconnected from everyone around me.
That disconnect followed me into adulthood. I got good at doing my hair and makeup. I learned how to perform confidence. I changed my body at a young age because I hated myself. Comments about my weight, my chest, my appearance followed me everywhere, and to this day I still have to tell people they no longer have the privilege of commenting on my body.
People see the tattoos. The skulls. The knuckles. They assume I am mean, hardened, unapproachable.
What they don’t see is a girl who spent her entire adolescence trying to survive, trying to belong, trying to understand who she was allowed to be.
At one point, I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I carried that label for a long time, believing something was fundamentally wrong with me. When I told my husband, he stopped me and said, “That is not who you are. Don’t let someone else tell you what you are allowed to be.”
That was the first time I questioned whether the labels placed on me were survival responses, not character flaws.
I still struggle with identity. I still battle abandonment issues. I still feel the urge to pull away before people can leave. Some days I feel guarded and sharp. Some days I want to give the world everything I have.
But healing is not linear.
Being the weird girl who passed as popular wasn’t a failure. It was a survival skill. It was a child doing everything she could to stay afloat in environments that never felt safe.
Bad things happening to you does not define you.
Labels are not life sentences.
And no one gets to write your story for you.
You do.
From Broken to Boss: Becoming Me 