Forty years of awkward

When I was 7 I wanted to be a Solid Gold Dancer. For those of you not yet receiving letters urging you to join AARP, Solid Gold was music television series and a staple of Saturday night television from 1980-1988. Like other music series of the time, Solid Gold featured musical performances by the artists charting that week. Unlike American Bandstand and Soul Train, Solid Gold didn't have a live audience dancing as though they were in a club, instead featuring heavily choreographed performances by their in-house dancers.

The Solid Gold Dancers were sparkly, luminous visions of disco sunshine to my music-obsessed child self. I wanted to be each and every one of the female dancers, and the male dancers were among my earliest crushes.

Each performance seemed to start with all the dancers frozen in dramatic poses on stage, waiting for the music to start. I too stood frozen, waiting to see what song would play, what the dancers' first moves would be. Enraptured, I'd stare at the screen for the first 30 seconds of the dance, watching the effortless kicks, backbends and twirls, then suddenly hurl myself through the living room, spinning and kicking my way through what was, in my mind, a perfect immitation of what I had just seen.

It was not.

I was, and am, a terrible, terrible dancer.

But unlike adult me, little girl me was completely unafraid to show anyone and everyone her dance moves. When all the neighborhood kids would come over to play in our backyard I would insist on playing a game I made up called "Solid Gold Dancer" (creative, I know), during which we'd all have to take turns dancing to whatever song was on the small radio I had borrowed from our kitchen. I remember loving this game, and being frustrated that not all of my friends wanted to play SGD as often or for as long as I did.

Fast forward 3 years, to when my parents moved us from half of the 2-bedroom duplex they owned to a 3-bedroom house in a nicer neighborhood, where my younger sister and I could each have our own bedroom and where there was extra space for my mom's rapidly growing home daycare business.

This nicer neighborhood also came with more affluent neighbors, which for me meant a new school with 5th grade classmates into designer jeans, pre-teen movies and makeup, and who may have watched Solid Gold, but weren't into playing SGD or other childhood make-believe games. With my secondhand garage sale jeans, braided hair and penchant for daydreaming during gym class instead of kicking/hitting/whatever-ing the ball, I was immediately placed onto the lowest rung of the 5th grade social ladder.

I was picked on. I was bullied. I was left out.

My little girl confidence erroded quickly.

I stopped raising my hand in class when I knew the answer, afraid I'd be mocked for being a nerd. When the class lined up to go to lunch I hung at the back of the line, where I felt safe from being tripped or pushed. I avoided going to the pencil sharpener or anything that involved me being the only student not at their desk, for fear of being ridiculed for what I was wearing or how I was moving.

Today when I look back on this time in my life I try to focus on how lucky I was to have lived through this in 1983 rather than in 2023. There was no social media, no digital messaging to give my bullies access to me 24/7. Upon arriving home every day after school I had my sister and all the younger kids my mom babysat to keep me company. On Saturdays I had scheduled play dates with my friends from my old neighborhood and former school. On Sundays my parents would load us in the car and drive to their childhood farm homes, where we would spend the afternoon running and playing outside with our cousins.

I was lucky to have so much time away from what was happening at school, to have so much uninterupted time with people who loved me; but the bullying still deeply fractured my ability to believe in, to love, and to trust myself. I found my own "tribe" of friends in junior high and high school, but the fear my bullies had instilled in me -- that I somehow just wasn't good enough -- had already settled deep inside me. I stuck to spaces where I felt safe -- the school newspaper, behind the scenes at the theater, AP classes where I was sure to have numerous friends, and avoided spaces that were new, uncomfortable and stirred up old fears -- school sporting events, formal dances like prom and homecoming, trying out for any type of activity that was new to me where I may look awkward in front of others.

Today: I'm happily married, I have a large social network of amazing people and a group of close friends that are truly like a second family. My own family, immediate and extended, is close and I enjoy time with them on a regular basis. I hike, lift weights, run, attend yoga twice a week; many of my friends would call me athletic. I love live music and regularly bounce around to the beat when I'm at a concert.

But...

When I try something new, like paddleboarding, I do it on my own or under the guidance of a paid instructor, rather than trying it with my friends. I make excuses when invited to the park to play volleyball, because I haven't played in years and the idea of looking awkward brings me back to my 5th grade self instantly.

I turned 50 a few months ago. I'd like to spend this decade trying new things unafraid of of being judged, by others or myself. I'm tired of missing fearless little girl me.

It's time to find her again.