Growing Up in Between: High School and the Ache to Belong
A story about insecurity, cultural tension, and finding your place when you feel like you don’t fit anywhere
If childhood was where the wound was formed, then high school was where it started bleeding.
By the time I hit my teen years, I had already internalized the idea that I wasn’t good enough—physically, emotionally, socially, spiritually. But high school took that insecurity and put it under a microscope. Suddenly, everything felt performative. Every hallway felt like a runway. Every classroom like a judgment panel.
And I never felt like I belonged.
Part of that was because of my home life—the chaos, the criticism, the coldness. But part of it was also cultural.
I’m Lebanese. Both of my parents were born in Lebanon, and I’m a first-generation American. That reality brought beauty into my life—rich food, deep family loyalty, a love for tradition. But it also brought tension. Because while I was living in suburban America, I was also carrying the weight of an entire culture that didn’t always line up with the one around me.
The “In Between” Life
I never quite fit. Not at home. Not at school. Not in my body.
At home, I felt the pressure of expectations—culturally and personally. I was supposed to be obedient, polished, and quiet. I was supposed to make my parents proud, even though pride was hard to come by in a house like mine. I was supposed to uphold a kind of invisible standard of honor—especially as a daughter.
At school, I felt the opposite pressure. Fit in. Blend in. Don’t stand out too much. Be cool, but not loud. Pretty, but not “trying too hard.” And definitely not different.
But I was different.
Culturally. Emotionally. Spiritually.
And I didn’t know how to carry it.
Body Shame and Comparison
This was also the stage when my body became “the problem.” Or at least, that’s how I saw it.
My father had already planted the seed—his harsh words and constant comparisons. But in high school, the rest of the world seemed to agree with him. Thin was the standard. Flawless skin. Long legs. Small waist. Soft voice. Perfect confidence.
I had none of that. I felt like a walking contradiction.
Too curvy. Too emotional. Too awkward. Too Lebanese.
I started believing that I’d only be lovable if I could change everything about myself.
And behind the good grades and the Catholic school smile, I was drowning.
When It All Felt Like Too Much
What made those high school years even harder was that the pain didn’t stop at the school doors. At home, things were no better. My parents were always arguing—sometimes in whispers, sometimes in shouting matches. The air in our house was tense more often than it was calm. And my father... he never stopped tearing my mother down. He criticized her looks, her voice, her choices. And me? I was just the next target in line.
He’d mock my body. My legs. My face. My weight. My walk. There wasn’t much he didn’t pick apart.
And school wasn’t a refuge. I was made fun of there too—for how I looked, for my awkwardness, for things I couldn’t change. There were days I felt like I was being attacked from every side. I didn’t feel safe anywhere—not in my home, not in my school, not in my own skin.
I started to feel like everything around me was fake. Plastic smiles. Forced small talk. Expectations that had nothing to do with who I really was. Every day felt like a performance. I’d put on a mask just to survive. Smile. Laugh. Stay small. Stay quiet. Make it to the next period. Make it to the next dinner. Make it to bedtime. Repeat.
And there were moments—real ones—when I didn’t want to live anymore. Not that I had a plan. But I had the ache. The weariness. The quiet wish that maybe it would be easier if I didn’t have to wake up and do it all over again.
It was a dark time. A lonely time. A time when I felt invisible and exposed all at once. And it’s taken years to even admit that part out loud. But I say it here because maybe you’ve been there too. And I want you to know: that place isn’t the end of your story.
Faith in the Background
At this point, my faith was there—but quiet. Background noise. I went to Mass, said the right things, wore the uniform. But it wasn’t personal. God felt distant—like a figure watching me with disapproval. I didn’t trust Him, really. I saw Him the way I saw most authority figures: someone I needed to appease, not someone who loved me.
Looking back now, I can see that He was there. I just couldn’t recognize Him yet. Not in the noise. Not in the shame. Not in the mirror.
Why This Matters
I share all this not to rehash high school drama or vent about cultural tension—but because so many women carry unspoken pain from these years. The “in-between years” where you don’t feel fully yourself anywhere. The years where lies take root because there wasn’t enough love or clarity to confront them.
If you’ve ever felt like the odd one out…
If you’ve ever hated your reflection…
If you’ve ever wished you could peel off your story and put on someone else’s…
You're not alone. I know how that feels. And you don’t have to stay there.
These years didn’t define me forever. But they shaped me in ways I’m still unlearning and healing from. I’ll be writing more about that in the posts to come—especially the quiet faith that started to come alive, the friendships that surprised me, and the lies that took years to name and replace.
But for now, I want to leave you with this:
You don’t need to erase who you are to be loved.
Not your culture. Not your emotions. Not your past.
God sees all of it—and He isn’t asking you to shrink.
He’s asking you to trust that He can redeem even this.
And He will.
Seeing the Lie for What It Is
As much as I hate to admit it, when I look back on those years—childhood and high school—I know now that they shaped me deeply. They didn’t just bruise my ego or make me “a little insecure.” They shaped the way I see myself to this day.
They clouded my vision.
They distorted the mirror.
They made it nearly impossible for me to see myself with any honesty—especially through the eyes of God, or even the eyes of my husband.
When I looked at myself, I didn’t just see flaws. I saw ugliness. I saw someone misshapen, broken, hard to love. That’s the scar I carry even now. It’s faded, but it’s still there. It shows up when I look in the mirror and flinch. It shows up when my husband reaches for me and I instinctively pull away. It shows up in the silence after a compliment I don’t know how to accept.
And while that scar is something I fight against daily, I’ve also come to recognize where it came from.
It was a lie.
It was always a lie.
I was sold that lie as a child and as a teenager—by a broken father, a hurting mother, a cruel classmate, a world obsessed with performance. And beneath all of that? I know exactly who was whispering:
The enemy of my soul.
Satan. The accuser.
The one who wants to destroy the image of God in me.
Because the devil is real. And he doesn’t always come with horns and fire. Sometimes, he comes as the voice in your head that says:
“You’re ugly.”
“You’re unlovable.”
“You’re not worth it.”
“You’re a mistake.”
That’s not self-awareness. That’s not humility. That’s not your personality.
That is spiritual warfare.
The enemy wants us to hate the image of God in ourselves. Because if he can distort that—if he can get us to agree with his lies—he gains ground. And the moment we start seeing ourselves through his eyes instead of the Father’s, we start living out of fear, shame, and self-hatred instead of love.
And here’s the truth I’m learning to cling to:
God never told me I was ugly.
Jesus never rolled His eyes at me.
The Father never said, “You’re too much.”
Only the enemy talks like that.
So every day, I wake up and try—imperfectly—to reject the lie. To name it. To replace it with truth. And to let my identity be formed not by trauma, but by Truth Himself.
A Truth to Hold On To
If any part of this section stirred something in you—if you recognize that you’ve been living under a lie about your worth, your beauty, or your identity—take a moment right now to name it.
Ask yourself:
What are the specific lies I’ve believed about myself?
Where do I think those lies came from?
Would God ever speak to me that way?
Now, take those lies—no matter how long they’ve been sitting inside you—and speak this truth out loud, even if your voice shakes:
“That’s not who I am. That’s not how God sees me.”
And if you need something to cling to when the old voices return, hold onto this:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
(Psalm 34:18)
You’re not broken beyond repair.
You’re not beyond the reach of healing.
You are seen. You are known. You are loved—by the only One whose voice holds eternal weight.
With love,
Claire Elise Bennett, PhD
