It was Groundhog Day. The skies were grey and the snow was speckled with tufts of grass peeking out over the blanket of white. At around eleven in the morning, kids piled out of the maroon double doors. Dressed in warm winter jackets and colorful snow pants, kids leapt into the snow banks with gleeful smiles on their faces. For a winter day in Wisconsin, the weather was about average. But today would not be any ordinary day.
Along with a few boys from my class, I found my way out to the ice patches. Minutes passed. Snowballs were thrown back and forth. A few tumbling twists to the ice later, the school bell rang. I laid sprawled out on the ice, holding my head. It throbbed like nothing else I had felt before. Every check or knock into the boards whilst playing ice hockey didn’t compare. Before I could say anything, the boys scurried inside without another glance back. Truthfully, I don’t remember much else. However, I remember what happened after. As clear as day.
I spent at least a week between the bathroom and the couch. My glasses needed to be readjusted because my vision got worse. I was given a brand new pair of tortoise shell frames. I was not allowed to step foot onto the ice until the “all clear” was given from the doctor. I was requested to spend recess indoors, while the boys who knocked me onto the ground were still allowed outside during recess, even after what happened. Ten pounds lighter and a little under a month later, I was finally able to return to the hockey rink. A few weeks after that, we left the elementary school. After a summer of homeschooling, we moved to the northern suburbs of Chicago to start over.
For whatever reason, I used to always be ashamed of this part of my story. Which is funny when you think about it: I was afraid of telling people I was bullied. There was and is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, if this happens or has ever happened to you before. Nevertheless, it took me an incredibly long time to be comfortable talking about it. I’m sure others who have been bullied–in any form–can relate on some level. It’s just damn hard, especially when you’re younger.
If there’s anything moments like my Groundhog day concussions have taught me, it’s that you have to claim every aspect of yourself. That means every fragment of your story, your weaknesses, your strengths, and all the things you’re passionate about. There’s no shame in being yourself and being honest with the world. The worst thing you can do for yourself–as well as the world and the people who care about you–is to hide away in fear of making yourself vulnerable to criticism and people who misunderstand you.
Taking your story as your own and wearing it like a badge is strength. Being embarrassed by some parts is inevitable, because let’s be real: we’ve all done stuff we face palm over now. There are memories of ours that are a little bit darker than where we might be now with our lives, so it makes sense for us to put those moments on the shelf and revisit them sparingly. It’s okay not to want to talk about our dark times. Yet, we must acknowledge that they happened.
Without all the little pieces of our puzzles, we would not be where we are today. We would not be who we are without every little situation happening exactly as it has played out till now. It’s the good, the bad, and the ugly that help us to refine the kind of person we become. If there’s anything I wish I could have told my younger self, it’s to claim your story. Don’t be afraid of what the world will think of you. Be fearful of living a life hiding in the shadows when you have the potential for so much more. Own who you are, or it will own you.
