What I Learned After Losing My Self-Esteem at 11 Years Old
We can influence how others see themselves. Be someone who builds up, rather than tears down.
It happened when I was about 11.
I was on the cusp of becoming a young woman and was probably at that awkward stage of being all knees and elbows. I thought the world was full of kind people who liked me and wanted to be my friend. I was a friendly, imaginative, and thoughtful girl. And I was eager to someday become a beautiful woman, find my prince charming, and live happily ever after.
I was visiting family in Eastern Oregon, and my uncle had agreed to take all the cousins to the community pool. Rambunctious and excited to swim, we piled in the car and headed out. We got there early, so we waited in line until the pool opened.
A few minutes into our wait, four teenage boys lined up behind me. I remembered looking back as they approached. Knowing myself — especially my 11-year-old self — I probably smiled at them. They were talking amongst themselves until one of them noticed me.
He did not have kind intentions, nor did he want to be my friend.
What happened next left my self-esteem in tatters, which would take decades to rebuild. At 38, I’m still coming to terms with how I view myself, and how much importance I put on people’s perception of me. I care too much what people think.
Perhaps what’s most devastating is the deep shame and humiliation I still feel — nearly 30 years later — when I hear a group of people laughing close by. I immediately return to my 11-year-old self, and I think they’re laughing at me.
Before I go any further, I want to acknowledge my experience with full understanding and empathy for those who have experienced far worse. Some have experienced deep, historical trauma, abuse, or loss. Many have endured — and continue to endure — years of hatred, racism, or pain. The list goes on and on.
This was my experience as an 11-year-old girl, and how I internalized what four teenage boys said about me. What made this experience so painful was the timing. What those boys said shaped and influenced who I thought I was — and wasn’t — at a time where healthy self-talk, self-identity, and self-image are crucial for a girl.
The event that crushed my self-esteem and self-worth
While standing in line, these boys began to talk about me like I wasn’t there. With my back turned to them, they spat out things that devastated my tender, young heart. They took turns in their bullying, trying to ‘one-up’ the others. After one of them said something, the rest would laugh — all at my expense.
I don’t recall everything these boys said, but I remember parts:
“Wait…is that a girl, or a boy?”
One of the boys mockingly stepped to the side of me, taking a quick look at my profile. I stood brave and calm — stoic even — though my heart pounded in my ears, my mind raced, and my face flushed with humiliation. I’m a girl! I thought desperately.
The snickering went on as they continued to launch their verbal assault against me.
“Before anyone says I do, I don’t.”
Wait, what? I immediately assumed they were talking about someone not wanting to date or marry me. I don’t know if they said anything specific to beauty, but I got the message loud and clear. I wasn’t beautiful, and no man would want me. And a man wouldn’t want me because I supposedly looked like a boy. I was ugly.
I looked for my uncle or older cousin, desperately hoping they would see me and come to my aid. But they were further up in the line. I still don’t know why I didn’t call out to them, or go to them. I just took those awful words from those boys because I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want anyone to think I was a baby.
I felt utterly alone and dejected, left to face not one, but four bullies.
“Is she crying?”
Tears stung my eyes. But I refused to cry in front of them, although they were trying to goad me into crying. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I’m not sure how long I stood there, not saying anything and letting those boys say everything. My shoulders sagged with defeat and my head hung low.
Hearing these things withered the hope in my 11-year-old heart: That I was beautiful — or would be beautiful — and a man would someday find me desirable and want to marry me.
The pool gates soon opened, and we began to shuffle our way in. I swallowed back my tears and shoved my feelings deep, deep down. I wanted so badly to cry — to really bawl — but I knew that would bring more cruelty and attention from the boys behind me, who had moved on to other things.
I would save my sorrow for when I was alone.
I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, focused on keeping my emotions at bay. Once in the pool and underwater, I felt alone with my feelings. I felt safe, even if for a moment, to feel the pain and shame I’d experienced while waiting in line.
I began to cry underwater. And when I resurfaced, I could not turn off my tears. I could not stop my face from frowning and crumpling in despair at the realization of my ugliness.
Not wanting to draw attention to myself or alarm my family, I swam away from them. I waded through strangers happily splashing in the bright sunshine. Past people who had no idea what I’d just experienced. My mind whirred with confusion and pain, and I tried to understand what had just happened.
The feeling of being alone returned, but I had staved off the tears and sadness. For the moment.
When I returned to my family at the other end of the pool, my younger cousin was waiting for me. I don’t know if he’d overheard those terrible boys, but he sensed my sadness. That day, for the rest of our pool time, he made it his personal mission to cheer me up.
We splashed, pounced on each other, accosted our uncle and older cousin, and laughed together. He was the exact kind of friend I needed that day — he noticed me and did his best to cheer me up — to get my mind off the pain.
As my family and I walked to the car, damp beach towels wrapped around ourselves, I thought of those boys again. I probably even self-consciously tugged on my wet, tangled hair, which had been short for most of my childhood.
Some context
I grew up watching the old Disney movies: Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and The Little Mermaid. As romantic as those classics were, they did not empower little girls to think for themselves. They did not teach little girls to be brave or bold. They certainly didn’t encourage girls to trust themselves.
Most of those classic movies were about finding a man and falling in love and living happily ever after. Oh, and being very beautiful and kind — even in the face of a foe.
Sadly, I grew up with this inaccurate and incomplete view of what it meant to be a woman. I didn’t have a clear picture of who I could be and what I could offer the world, besides being beautiful and someone’s wife.
From a young age — long before being 11 years old — I dreamed about meeting my ‘prince charming.’ I dreamed about how my life would be complete when that happened. And of course, I dreamed about being a beautiful woman.
You may have already guessed it, but I’m a ‘girly girl.’ In addition to growing up on those old Disney movies, I loved my dolls and playing dress-up. As an adult, I love sparkly things and to wear sassy red lipstick and heels. I love to feel fancy and beautiful. In fact, feeling beautiful is a big part of my identity.
How that experience played out in my life
Over the next days, months, and years, my mind would go back to that moment while waiting in line at the community pool. And tragically, I always believed. I believed what those boys said about me.
I believed without realizing I had the choice to believe.
Growing up, that experience would change how I viewed myself as a young woman, and later, an adult.
Through the rest of my adolescence, my 20s, and even part of my 30s, I developed this false belief that I needed to be ‘presentable’ to be beautiful. ‘Presentable’ meant hair and makeup were done whenever I went anywhere of importance. Or where I might run into someone I know.
Being presentable gave me confidence. And by being presentable, I was my best self — and putting my best foot forward.
I’ve always known I have far more to offer this world than a pretty face or nice-looking hair, but I was convinced that how I looked was the draw — not the other way around.
I worried too much about what others thought about me. I judged myself harshly against other women I thought were prettier or more confident than me. I was constantly at war with myself — trying to figure out how I could look like and be like those beautiful women. It was an exhausting and impossible standard to meet — the pressure sometimes unbearable.
The only place I was comfortable as my ‘natural self’ was my own home or at my parents’. I knew they wouldn’t judge my bare, oil-prone face and thin, sissy la-la hair. Sadly, I believed everyone else would judge my bare, oily face and sissy la-la hair because that’s all I could see when I looked in the mirror. All I could see were my imperfections while focusing on other’s perceived perfection.
I didn’t want to be judged or thought as unkempt or sloppy. And I certainly didn’t want anyone to think me ugly. Without hair and makeup, I lacked confidence. Without hair and makeup, I thought I was showing the world something they wouldn’t find desirable.
And if I wasn’t desirable, nobody would want me or what I had to offer.
I’ve been so, so wrong.
COVID-19 has challenged this belief.
In March of this year, I began teleworking full-time. This has forced me to confront my belief that I needed to look presentable to be confident or be my best self. That I needed to have my makeup on and my hair done to show people my value and worth.
A few weeks into the new schedule, my team held our first completely virtual meeting. Leadership encouraged people to turn on their cameras. It was time to decide if I would get up at 4:45 a.m. to look ‘presentable’ for the meeting — or if I would sleep in until 6:30 and take my chances. I had to decide if I would show my bare, oily face and sissy la-la hair to my coworkers.
I slept in that morning. When it came time for my meeting, I took a deep breath as I shared my camera and showed myself to my entire team.
Turns out people don’t give a shit what I look like. I’m the only one who cares.
People were genuinely happy just to see my face — to see others’ — to make a human connection. At that moment, I realized I’d been focusing on the wrong thing all this time: My coworkers don’t give a shit about what I look like — they give a shit about me.
This new belief was confirmed when my husband and I met up with two friends for dinner one night. Like at work — with that first virtual meeting and every one after — I didn’t put on makeup or do my hair. I just showed up, eager to see friends we hadn’t seen in months. And just like my coworkers, my friends didn’t care what I looked like — they cared about what was going on with me.
COVID-19 has offered me something wonderfully freeing: I don’t have to look ‘presentable’ for work.
I don’t wear makeup anymore; my hair no longer coifed. I have three inches of grow out, and little motivation to color it. I let my hair air dry, and by the end of the day, it’s wrapped up in a messy, high ponytail. My work attire consists of pajama bottoms and the same tired T-shirt from a local bike shop.
I haven’t worn a bra in months. (Don’t worry, the camera only shows my shoulders and up. I mean, let’s keep it professional.) I attend meetings and conference calls — gasp! — as the natural me. It’s liberating.
When I go to the grocery store or run errands, I don’t worry about how I look. Shit, half my face is covered by a mask anyway. Six months ago, my appearance would have horrified me.
But I’ve changed. And I know better now.
What I’ve learned, and what I want others to know
Not everyone speaks the truth. Not everyone is kind. Some people are stupid, careless, and vicious. Some people choose to harass those who are smaller than them, so the harasser can feel better about themselves. Sometimes people say mean things because they’re an asshole.
As a mom, I know my son will experience similar heartbreak and rejection. I know people will hurt him, and make him think he’s less than. I know at some point he’ll question himself and what he can offer this world.
I know my niece, who’s very much a girly girl like her Auntie, will face a time when someone is cruel and makes her feel ugly and unwanted.
If you’re a parent like me, or if you have children or teenagers in your life whom you love deeply, talk with them about how they see themselves. Ask what they like about themselves.
You have tremendous influence over their self-talk, self-identity, and self-image. Empower them, and help them to think for themselves. Teach them to challenge or question what other people say about them.
Tell them that they have the power to decide who they are…and no one else.
I wish I could have shared this with my 11-year-old self:
- I have the choice to reject what someone says, especially if their intent is to harm.
- No one tells me how I should feel about myself. I make that decision.
- My self-esteem and self-worth aren’t connected to how I look, or a stranger’s shallow opinion of me.
- I should never be held to someone else’s standards or expectations of beauty and femininity. And I should never judge myself against someone else’s beauty and femininity.
- Someone will always have my back, so don’t be afraid to call out for help.
- I should never feel alone in my pain or feel like I have to shoulder the burden of pain and suffering alone.
I’ll certainly share this advice with my son, my niece and nephew, and any other children or teenagers with whom I have the honor of positively influencing.
I’m a work in progress
I’m working on being kind to myself. I’m showing and practicing kindness by not judging myself so harshly, or comparing myself to other women. It’s unfair and unreasonable to shame myself for not looking as beautiful as someone else.
Showing the natural me takes a lot of guts. And showing the natural me requires my full and complete vulnerability. And as uncomfortable as this is, it empowers me to be my true self.
I’m working on letting go of that pressure I put on myself — and by doing so — I’m redirecting all that negative energy into something good: Being myself, and loving myself for who I am. I’m learning to re-program my brain and focus on what I have to offer, rather than how I look.
Make no mistake: Someday, I will blow dry my hair and put on my sassy red lipstick and heels again. But not today. And not tomorrow. My priorities are different now, and I know my worth. And my worth is not tied to how attractive I am, or how attractive I feel.
I’m still me when I don’t wear makeup or have my hair done. I’m still a strong, smart, and caring person. I am confident.
And most importantly, I’m still beautiful.
