High school is where people reinvent themselves.
Where we experiment, evolve,
fade into the background or
step into the spotlight.
There are cliques,
crowds,
friend groups that form like constellations—
bright and distant.
People dress to express themselves,
to speak their truth without saying a word.
But I couldn’t do that.
I was different—
not by choice.
My difference wasn’t a statement.
It wasn’t an identity I curated.
It was a rule.
A restriction.
A uniform of belief sewn into every hem and thread.
Long skirts.
High necklines.
No jewelry.
No makeup.
Hair wrapped.
Body hidden.
No pants.
Ever.
I couldn’t show who I was,
because I wasn’t allowed to be who I was.
My self-expression had to be filtered
through the lens of what was “holy,”
what was “right.”
But right for who?
I stood out,
but not because I wanted to.
Not because I was bold or loud or rebellious.
I stood out
because I was bound.
Bound to a belief that told me
God lived in my obedience.
That righteousness looked like
modesty,
submission,
silence.
I didn’t fade into the background—
I couldn’t.
But I didn’t shine either.
I just stood.
Set apart,
quietly aching
to belong.