Even as my world began to open, fear still ran the show.
My biggest fear wasn’t speaking anymore—it was being liked, especially in groups. I doubted that people truly liked me. I believed they tolerated me only because of Colleen and Janice, because they were kind and generous and made space for me. Without them, I was convinced I would disappear again.
That belief cost me deeply.
I lost good friendships because I was certain I wasn’t enough—didn’t have enough, wasn’t cool enough, didn’t measure up. I missed out on meaningful connections and even a relationship with a boy I cared about, Joe Ontiveros. Looking back, I can see how fear convinced me to walk away before anyone else could.
I also learned something unsettling: people, as a collective, often struggle to see others change—especially for the better. Growth can feel threatening. I sensed resistance from classmates as I improved, and I couldn’t understand why. I wasn’t trying to outshine anyone. I was just trying to survive.
For so long, I had been picked on that safety felt precious. It was a relief not to be teased anymore, not to be the punchline. Slowly, people began to accept me. And then—almost unexpectedly—I started having fun. Real fun. I worried less. I laughed more.
And one day, something in me snapped into clarity.
Fuck it.
I decided I didn’t care what anyone else thought of me anymore—within reason. I started doing my own thing. Not because I was brave, but because I was tired. Tired of shrinking. Tired of guessing. Tired of living my life through other people’s approval.
Still, my peers clung to old versions of me. To them, I was the “dumb girl”—the one with D’s and F’s, lucky to scrape by with a C. What they couldn’t reconcile was this: my test scores were higher than most of theirs. That fact confused them. Eventually, they had to accept it.
I wasn’t stupid.
I never had been.
Once that truth settled, something shifted. They began treating me like one of the group. It felt amazing. It felt earned. It felt safe.
What never occurred to me was that I could actually change my life.
I was becoming successful in school, but when I entered the workforce at fifteen and a half, a new struggle appeared. I did well—department store managers noticed me and offered guidance. I learned quickly. I succeeded.
But leading others? That terrified me.
I was dysfunctional as a leader. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust my voice. I ended up bargaining for cooperation instead of commanding it. Fear still had a say.
I didn’t know it yet, but this resistance—this hesitation to fully step into my power—was the last place fear could hide.
And that’s when my mentors appeared
