In fifth grade, I learned I would have to take a van rather than take the school bus. "Can't I just take the bus?" I pleaded to my mom. 

"You have to take the van; the bus doesn't come down our road." my mother replied.

Anxiously, I waited for the van to come down my road; the van pulled up, I stepped inside, and took a seat. I wore one of my favorite dresses, leggings, fuzzy boots, and a headband with two puffballs on top to look like bear ears.

"Why are you wearing those fuzzy ears?" one of the girls asked "I don't know, I just like them, they're cute," I replied. The girls started to whisper to each other. One of the girls named Sadie looked over at me."Oh are those uggs you have on?" She asked

    "No, they're just boots," I replied, wondering what she meant.

    "Oh, they're knockoffs. Why can't you just get real Uggs?"

    "I don't know, my mom just got me these ones." I wondered why it was so bad that I didn't have real Uggs. Did it matter what the brand of my shoes were? I thought they looked good.

 When I came home that day, my mom greeted me, "How was your day? How was the new van?" she asked. "It was okay," I responded in a sad tone.

    "What happened?" she asked me.

    "One of the girls on the van asked me why my boots weren't 'real' Uggs. It made me upset," I replied. I walked away, swallowing the lump in my throat. 

Sometime after, my mom took me to pick out a pair of Uggs, real ones! I was so excited to wear them the next day. "Thank you, mom!" I said, and I hugged her.

The next day, I stepped onto my van confidently, excited to show off my new shoes. But instead of the shocked and surprised reaction I was thinking of from her, she wasn't very impressed. She just said, "Cool," and shrugged it off. I sat there wondering. She had asked why I couldn’t get real Uggs, yet when I finally did, her reaction was as flat as a deflated balloon

    "What's your favorite brand?" she asked me, and all the other girls looked at me, waiting for a response. "Uh, Wonder Nation, I guess?" I said unsurely; this was the brand I had seen on most of my clothes' tags.

"Oh," she chuckled. "Well, my mom models for Gucci," she replied as she pulled up pictures of her mom. When would what I had be good enough? The weight of their judgment was enough to crush me.

When I got home, my mom asked me about my day, "How did those girls like your new Uggs?" she asked. "I don't know, they didn't really say anything. But one girl said her mom is a model for Gucci."

Days like these continued for weeks. No matter what I had, it just wasn't good enough. They made me feel ashamed when I wore outfits I loved.  They would comment on what I had and didn't have; it was never enough. There was always something I got commented on, either about clothes or not having an iPhone. I just wished I could be like all the other girls, and I believed that I would be 'cool' if I had the same clothes and phones they had.

So, for the next few years, I tried to dress and act like the other girls; Each morning, I pulled on leggings and sweatshirts, draping myself in camouflage, hoping to blend into the background.

But no matter how hard I tried to be like the other girls, I would still be different. I would continue to be looked at weirdly or differently. I always wished I could fit into the popular group. I would pick apart every bit of me that was different.

 Trying to fit in was hard. I couldn’t be part of the girls who played sports together and bonded because I had always been unathletic.