I started wearing my high school class ring again.
The sterling silver signet with the school’s crest—engraved inside with “MMM 2009” (my initials and graduating year)—hasn’t fit me in years; it’s bent-band proof of the time when it had. But I’ve lost 50 pounds this year (more on that later… obviously), so it once again fits on my right ring finger.
I didn’t particularly enjoy high school—something I’ve become more acutely aware of as I transcribe my diaries from the four years I was there for my project, “I Wrote Her Into Existence.” Looking back now, I am incredibly grateful for the education I received at an academically prestigious all-girls private school in the heart of D.C. (it’s where I learned to hone my writing!) and for the positive ways it shaped me as a young woman. But that gratitude came well after the ink hit those lined composition pages. “Teen Margaret” didn’t have the maturity to see that.
I actually almost transferred out for junior year to a different private school. One that was more “alternative” and co-ed. I yearned to be around peers who appreciated the musical stylings of Taking Back Sunday and Jimmy Eat World, wore Vans instead of topsiders, and abhorred the idea of being “mainstream.” Lucky for me, I eventually got my wish during college, when I went to art school in the suburbs of New York City.
So I stuck it out. And I think this was the first time I decided to do something in spite of myself, in spite of what was expected of me at that stage, and in spite of the pain of the social obstacle courses I’d already hustled through.
What is clear from my diaries—and two decades of hindsight—is that I was growing into someone who refused to conform. It was—and still is—a point of pride. In one entry, I rant about how my dad accuses me of being obsessed with being “anti.” We laugh about this now, as it’s led me to think critically for myself, make decisions that require faith to overcome fear, and listen to my gut when it’s telling me something.
It doesn’t mean I can’t hold space for what “Teen Margaret” went through, though. There was a real loneliness during that time—fair-weather friends, compassionless teachers, and cruel adolescent boys. I realized, though, that spending time and energy after graduating trying to forget I ever attended that school wasn’t sticking up for “Teen Margaret”, it was erasing her.
In 2021, I wrote a class note for the alumni magazine. We were coming out of lockdown, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play into the absurdity of asking anyone who had lived through a year of lockdown to casually share their accomplishments.
I got a handful of emails and DMs thanking me for saying what they’d all been wanting to. I didn’t do it for praise (I was frankly surprised they even published it?) but I was relieved that it resonated with so many alumni. Turns out we all hate reading the biannual, self-reported, sugar-coated summaries—and a lot more girls felt as lonely and anxious as I did during our time at that school. I wondered how long and hard they tried to forget their years.
So I’m wearing the ring again, the scratches and scrapes show in the softened silver. I’m proud to wear it, grateful to have become the woman I am in spite of myself.
