Middle school girls understand systems of power in ways that would make Alexander the Great weak in the knees. I know this because I met Hailey Meyer (whose name has been changed) on the first day of 6th grade, landing myself in a God-tier power struggle.

Hailey was popular and performed femininity so loudly, your local Republican congressman would’ve wept tears of joy. She curled her hair, clumped her lashes with mascara, and rolled her skirt twice. I did not. To add insult to injury, that first day, I wore a navy uniform polo shirt. Hailey took one look at me and said, “We don’t wear navy polos, that’s a boy’s color.” Much to Hailey’s dismay, I showed up the next day in another navy shirt and the popular girls crashed out. That’s how I learned simple acts of noncompliance directly threaten systems of power.

Hailey assumed everyone wanted her approval. I watched her group of friends painstakingly police each other’s behavior. That didn’t appeal to me. I refused to attend townhalls in the girls’ bathroom over whether or not I was allowed to like horses or dog training or coding. I broke rank and did whatever I wanted, without permission, inciting my first real experience with bullying. But mean girls only have power if you give it to them. Unfortunately, for Hailey, she’d never met someone as stubborn as me; which made the act of ignoring her, while she demanded I abandon myself to cow to her wishes, a power play. And if there’s one thing a person with self-aggrandizing authority hates—it’s a power play by an inferior.

At the time, it was exhausting, but all these years later, I feel almost grateful. Because these dynamics are evergreen. Small acts of noncompliance still threaten systems of power. Showing up as yourself is an act of strength. Being able to recognize someone else’s rabid vitriol towards you as decorated desperation is a gift, because once you can see through it, you can resist it.

And even now, I wonder what those girls were policing themselves from. I wonder what hobbies they kept tucked away in a box under their bed, because they valued approval over authenticity. I wonder why some people see differences as a fatalistic threat to be conquered. I wonder if they ever got to explore their identities, including the cringiest parts, in earnest. I wonder if they figured it out, or if, in their adolescence, their brains hardwired themselves for conformity in the name of safety. Did they lose their uniqueness, their passions, their curiosities? And mostly, I wonder, if we actually would’ve been friends had we taken the time to understand one another?