A Reflection on Growing Up as a Girl | Sydney King

What is The Alembic?

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Sometime between August-December of 2015, Jupiter, South Florida
“Ohmigod you’re so flat?” an unnamed girl with a face I can’t
remember says to someone, I think it was one of her close friends, as
we’re all changing out of our sweaty gym clothes. I keep my back to
everyone and change as fast as possible, trying to beat the threaten-
ing allegations of staring at girls in that way, while also desperately
not wanting anyone to analyze my body. I’m nestled in the corner of
the large locker room, forcing eye contact with the blue-gray lockers
instead. I learned that it’s only okay to look at another girl’s body as a
girl if you’re insulting it.
“No, I’m not, I’m literally a B cup? Look at you?” the other
girl retorts at her close friend. She has bright blonde hair, the type
that you would think was consistently dyed, if it weren’t for the fact
that we were in middle school. I, along with her close friend, contem-
plated the truth of this information. I know that Blonde has struggled
with the truth before, since her eyes are deep brown like mine, but she
alleges that they turn green and blue in the sunlight. Some things are
just not worth the battle.
“Well, I have like—no ass?” Another girl joins in, she’s
exclaiming this statement, despite it putting her down. I like her, she
stands out in school, I remember her managing to make our gross gym
uniform her own. Most of the girls just folded over the waistband
on their shorts a couple of times or tied a hair tie around a bunch of
excess t-shirt fabric, this girl knew how to accessorize, with bracelets
and earrings. She was really thin and had really long straight hair,
which meant a lot in a school full where flat iron damage was the
norm. She was a seventh grader, a year older than me, Blonde, and the
unnamed close friend. She and the other seventh and eighth graders
took a liking to me, the same way a middle-aged, financially secure
woman takes a liking to a designer purse. They thought I was a cute
attachment to themselves.
“Shit guys—that was the bell? Like, where is my shirt?”
Blonde is scrambling right now because we have maybe five minutes
in between periods to get across the ginormous mostly outdoor school
in the scorching heat. I still think there should have been some child
endangerment law against having gym classes outside in one of the
hottest and most humid states in the country. The girls, which had
expanded from a three-person conversation to nearly half of the class,
were too busy analyzing their bodies and talking over each other to
fully hear the bell.
I left the girls’ locker room that day on time and by myself,
replaying the changing conversations over and over in my head. I
thought about how those girls had looked at my body before, if they
had at all (they probably had). I knew it was a better alternative than
the boys at school being aware of my body, as they were chronic
body-shamers, both in words and actions.
I did my best not to draw attention to my body, making sure
my school-approved shirts always covered my hips, and making
sure my skinny jeans (yes, we all wore skinny jeans, or loose-fitting
sweats, in the heat) went all the way to my ankles. I thought about
the words “flat.” Skinny had always been good in my mind, and I
was sure that was the consensus, but moving up into middle school
gave new criteria for girls to meet on top of being skinny. The bodies
of myself and other eleven- to fourteen-year-olds had to be curvy on
top of maintaining thinness, despite most of us not yet going through
puberty.
I don’t entirely know if this conversation is from one day, if
it happened every time I had gym class, or if it was a combination
of conversations that my brain mashed together in one harmonious
memory. I cannot place its chronological relation to other memories
of conversations I had in this gym class, like discussions about the
grossness of not shaving your legs, the movie Teeth (if you don’t
know what this is, don’t look it up), and the dramatics of what went
on underneath the massive gym risers. In some ways, I think I learned
the most about being a girl in this class for that semester, than I did
for the rest of my life.
***
Sometime between March and May of 2016, Jupiter, South Florida
“Sometimes I think I was born backwards... the people I’m
supposed to hate, I love? And the people I love—*crash*” my com-
puter screen reverbs to me. I’m sitting on my bed in my room that I
hate. I hate the decorations, I hate that there’s still toys in here from
my elementary school days (a year ago), I hate my popcorn ceiling,
and my unfashionable bed spread. I don’t hate what’s in front of me,
which is my laptop, opened to Netflix, playing the series Skins (UK).
This show is mostly known for being the grimiest but realest repre-
sentation of teenagers, tackling genuine issues with no censorship,
which was refreshing, but I would soon find to be damaging. As em-
barrassing as it is to admit, most of what I learned about teen issues
at this point, I learned about from either Skins or from the kids on my
bus.
My eyes were glued to my computer screen, hoping that none
of my family members would walk into my room, disrupting me from
a universe I so desperately wanted to be a part of. Effy Stonem, the
show’s mysterious and euphoric it-girl consumed my attention. I was
mesmerized by her beauty, her actress being only two years older
than I was. She barely spoke at the beginning of the series, which to
me, was the coolest thing ever. She wore fishnets, combat boots, eye
makeup that was both messy and flashy, and cool distressed tops. By
contrast, I wore a plain uniform and BB cream that had melted off my
face by the end of the school day, accompanied by mascara marks on
my eyelids.
More importantly about Effy, I couldn’t help myself from star-
ing at her body. It wasn’t objectification, it was like my developing
brain was entranced. She was easily a couple of inches taller than me,
and it did not seem like it was possible for her thighs to touch. The
series had characters that dealt with eating disorders and body image
issues—but Effy didn’t, she was just effortlessly thin and different
from the other characters because of her consistent desirableness. The
scenes of her walking in her edgy clothes were burned into my brain
because she had the most important accessory worn with those outfits:
unquestionable thinness.
Effy had unconsciously pivoted the way my brain was devel-
oping. She taught me what it meant to be pretty. I often saw bits and
pieces of her in the girls at school, complaining about their bodies,
while still maintaining absolute thinness and all types of attention. It
was everything I could ever want, and everything I was sure was al-
ways going to be out of my reach. It was quite an unsettling revelation
to have at 12 years old, and it was entirely based in fiction.
***
Sometime between January and May of 2016, Jupiter, Southern Florida
“Okay so like—I’ll give you my Instagram password and I’ll
give you mine? And then we can like—log in and prank people?”
Shayla sparked this brilliant idea when we were walking through the
food court of our local mall. She was always coming up with ways
for us to get closer, at least I think that’s what she was trying to do?
As we passed the Chipotle, my stomach got some nervous jitters in it
from this suggestion, but I figured they were nerves of excitement. I
was never at peace with Shayla.
“I feel like—like we’re definitely going to get catcalled to-
day?” Shayla said this with a certain but light tone, and I found my-
self wondering how our conversation had gotten here, how it always
somehow contained this topic. It almost like she wanted it to happen?
But that couldn’t be true, I think? Shayla talked about boys in a way
that I couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t tell what she thought was right
or wrong, and maybe she didn’t know either. I didn’t want to get
catcalled, I just wanted to shop. I had strategically picked out what I
thought was an appropriate non-attention-seeking outfit, just a T-shirt
and jeans with a cardigan over it. I thought I was doing everything I
could to avoid any awkward or uncomfortable interactions. I didn’t
realize she had different ideas in mind.
We didn’t get cat-called that day. Most of the catcalling I ex-
perienced in middle school happened at the outdoor mall about a mile
and a half down the road, where it got dark, and I usually couldn’t
see the faces of the perpetrators. Actually, come to think of it, most
of the catcalling I experienced happened in the hallways of my mid-
dle school. In my experience, there was always an immediate insult
thrown in after being objectified. Boys would shame or sexualize us
to our faces, and girls would do it behind our backs. And there was
nothing we could do about it, because bringing more attention to it
would’ve been so embarrassing.
I haven’t talked to Shayla since a little after that. I still think
about her most days. How could I not? She cemented in my brain
what it meant to be pretty, to be a girl. She’s the one that taught me
that drinking in the sixth grade, or doing any substances as young
as possible, was a part of the female identity. Around a year after
this memory, when we had grown apart, she showed up to the sev-
enth-grade civics final high. She was the first friend, not the last,
to have chosen boys over me. Meanwhile, I was so invested in our
friendship, I would have never even considered dating. I didn’t have
to—I got everything I needed out of my female friendships.
It’s been 7 years since I spoke to her last. She still likes my
TikTok reposts sometimes. Maybe I taught her something, too.
***
March (I think) or April of 2019, East Greenwich, South Rhode Island
“She literally thinks (unnamed) guy likes her—but he only
likes her for her body? Why else would he?” My shockingly quiet
friend at the time says. She, and my other friend at the time (now both
removed) sit in the corner of the comfy bed at my friend’s house. Un-
consciously, there’s a gap between me and them. It’s got to be some-
time between midnight and two in the morning. I am fifteen years old
and will regret the lack of sleep the next day, and the choice of friends
within the next year.
“Are you guys sure—like why would he do that to her? Like
talking all the time?” I inquired. Surely, this can’t be the truth. If this
was the truth, how could anyone distinguish good intentions from
someone just using them? Was this what I—along with every other
girl I know— doomed to accept this?
“Sydney, come on—she is like that, and he knows it? That’s
why he’s even talking to her in the first place?” The other friend,
who’s usually louder, retorts this at me, hitting like a Razor scooter
to the ankle. The “she” in question was someone I was friends with,
someone who my other friends—these two girls—didn’t like. Sure,
she wasn’t perfect, she was a fifteen-year-old girl, but she was kind
and she tried. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t like her, they
never seemed to give a real reason.
“Guys like girls who—you know—have stuff?” says loud
friend, gesturing to her own body. I guess she, same with my friend
who they were complaining about, had developed bodies. My body
had gained weight since my younger body, for the first time, but
it seemed to hold weight in the wrong places. They were closer to
looking like women than I thought I ever would. I tried to not ob-
sess over the state of my body, but it was especially hard when other
girls brought up theirs. I couldn’t take hearing about them gushing
over their attention, even though most of the “attention” I was better
off without. It felt like there was some sort of club of misery that I
couldn’t get admitted into.
I wish I could fully remember this conversation, specifical-
ly how it ended, but I know that this memory is just a compounded
version of the same conversation I had with these friends repeatedly.
We went on to no longer be friends, and I learned later of their hypo-
critical words and actions regarding what was said about other girls at
our school. It was a moment of understanding, where my friends had
taught me about my two options for growing up: gain acceptance or
fade into obscurity.
***
September 2023, Providence, Northern Rhode Island
Lacy oh Lacy/aren’t you the sweetest thing on this side of hell? /Dear
Angel Lacy/did I ever tell you that I’m not doing well?
Although this was my first listen of this song, I could already
tell that it would be impressed on my brain for a long time. It was
unlike any other music Olivia Rodrigo had released before. Yes, she
had sung about jealousy before, but this time it felt different. This was
layered jealousy, or perhaps, jealousy was just the surface emotion,
and something deeper was behind it.
“Lacy” was unlike any other song I heard, and I couldn’t help
going over the lyrics throughout the rest of my day, trying to decipher
them.
I care, I care, I care/like ribbons in her hair/my stomach’s all in knots/
you got the one thing that I want
I knew that there were two ways a woman writes or talks
about other woman: the first being in a way of love and romantic
admiration (rare), and the second being using misogynistic attacks to
take other women down, while simultaneously obsessing over them.
“Lacy” did both at the same time, and also neither? It seemed to blur
the lines between three different questions: do I want to be her? Do I
want to hate her? Or do I want to be with her?
I try, I try, I try to rationalize/people are people/but it’s like
you’re made of angel dust
There was a certain level of self-awareness in the narrative
that made it feel as though Olivia had plucked my own thoughts from
my head. The spiraling jealousy, that leaves me sick with guilt, and
eventually turns into self-pity, as I realize this jealousy is coming from
myself, not the woman I’m projecting it on. Could I even call myself
a supporter of women if these thoughts erratically cycle through my
mind when triggered? How could I consider myself a feminist if on
my hierarchy of needs, my proximity to thinness and male attention
were dangerously close to the top?
I tried often to associate Olivia’s Lacy character with someone
in my life. However, every time I did so, I felt an uncomfortableness
rise in my stomach. What if my Lacy was myself—or a version of
myself that didn’t have to deal with these conflicting emotions coming
up every time a three-minute song played? What if it was the version
of myself that hadn’t been so shaped by my past environment—that
never internalized what Shayla, or the locker room girls, or loud and
quiet friends had to say? Was I dealing with this conflict because of
my circumstances, or because of my choices?
And I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you/yeah, I
despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you
I guess I could blame it on my environment, it was easier than
blaming myself.
***
Sometime in the past, all over the place
“Yeah—I’m not eating on Saturday?” This is what my gym
class best friend says to me, fall of 2019, our sophomore year of high
school. Our homecoming dance was this Saturday, this was apparently
a proper form of preparation for the girls in our grade. I remember this
homecoming because it was right before the world went to shit chaos,
and also because it was my first ever school dance where I had a date.
I was going with a boy because my group of friends was involved
with his. He was attractive, outgoing, popular, and had already had a
girlfriend before.
It was due to these reasons that I, apparently along with my
gym class friend, found it harder and harder to stomach food the week
before the dance. I remember after the dance ended and we all went
to McDonald’s after, and I felt a sense of relief—like I could finally
exhale. My stomach unknotted, unfortunately not for the last time.
I remember feeling a crash and burn after the dance, as I had put so
much pressure on myself for this definitive part of girlhood. All for 2
hours of jumping with our shoes off in a sweaty gym.
What could be better for mentally and physically developing
girls?
***
“Hey—watch it” is what my grandmother says to me in my
living room during Christmas of 2017, my eighth-grade year. The “it”
in question was referring to a donut that I had taken a few bites out of.
My dad had gone to our local renowned donut shop for the five of us
to have a treat this morning to celebrate. I remember it was snowing
during Christmas, which was a huge deal for me.
Meals stopped feeling like a part of the celebration after this.
In fact, every meal with my grandmother and family members outside
of my immediate family felt like a chore. I wondered if they were
bookmarking my orders at restaurants, waiting to judge me later. I
questioned if they were sizing up my appearance every time, noticing
flaws that I was not yet aware of.
I remember the donut memory was the driving force behind
me eating all my meals, if possible, in my room when my grand-
mother stayed with us for the summer. I remember my dad caught me
and said, “This is your house, you can feel comfortable eating here,”
but I had yet to feel comfortable eating at all.
I still can’t remember if I finished that donut or not.
***
Sometime between the fall of 2023 to the spring of 2024, East Green-
wich, Southern Rhode Island
“NOPE! Not gonna see it!” I can’t tell if my mom genuinely
thinks she’s whispering in the movie theater when she says this, or if
she wants the people in the neighboring seats to know how she really
feels. I don’t remember when this started, but recently my mom has
been open to expressing how she feels when she’s unimpressed by
bad movie trailers. We go to the movies often, and this happens every
time.
“One word: Rental!” is another one of her famous lines. I love
my mom, and despite me telling her to lower her voice every time she
does this, I she is my favorite movie-going partner. People tell me I
look a lot like her, and I always found that to be the biggest compli-
ment. To me, she is what it meant to be pretty.
My mom always talked badly about herself in terms of her
appearance. She was an older mom, but my friends were always sur-
prised when I told them. She would always particularly comment on
her body, saying something along the lines of how she let herself go
since having kids. I never thought so. I thought she was the epitome
of beauty, alongside me just looking up to her in general. My mom
was my entire world, and in a lot of ways, she still is.
When I was in eighth grade, I tried on my mom’s old pageant
dress. She was competing in Miss Iowa, as a part of the Miss Ameri-
ca pageant, when she was in college for scholarship money. She was
around twenty when she wore the dress, and I was fourteen. I tried it
on and immediately felt an immense amount of pressure in my chest
and around my waist.
“Have you ever had an eating disorder?” The words left my
mouth before I could filter them. She laughed at this, and just said
something about how she was “really skinny” due to her diet regimen
at the time, as well as her exercise routine. My mom had lived her
child-free life as a woman who would never be considered anything
other than thin, and perhaps the change to her body after having kids
was a long-term shock.
When I was in my sophomore year of high school, I had hit a
bit of a breaking point with my relationship with my body image. I re-
member going online to read about how poor body image develops in
the first place. I read something that stuck out to me, how “Many girls
derive their self-esteem from the way their mothers talk about them-
selves.” I felt a bit of relief at this, like maybe I didn’t have as much
responsibility in this as I actually did? Or maybe I wouldn’t have to
fix this problem myself?
I told my mom standing in her bedroom after I discovered my
findings. She always said that her girls were the better versions of her,
and that how we looked had nothing to do with her. But it did. Being
told I looked like my mom was the highest form of compliment I
could possibly achieve. I said something like, “Studies show that the
way a mother speaks about herself will reflect in the way her daugh-
ter speaks about herself.” I could tell she wanted to interject that that
wasn’t true, because she thought so highly of her girls, but she didn’t.
From that day forward, we have always been able to have conversa-
tions about how the way we speak about ourselves matters.
***
I often think about my version of myself from these moments.
I know my memory and time has probably distorted them, maybe it
wasn’t as bad as I remember it, or maybe it was worse. I know that
memories like these are a rite of passage to being a woman, and that
how I handle these issues today is based in these experiences. I will
never experience their uniqueness again, so instead I memorialize
them. I find myself wanting to go back, not out of enjoyment, but of
wanting to save myself, and the other girls from the ideas we were
internalizing. But I can’t. And I doubt if they reflect on them as much
as I do. Maybe they think there’s nothing to reflect on. They think
that they have developed properly from girl to woman. I know that a
lot of time has passed since these moments, and that because of these
experiences, things are better now. I have learned from them, I’m in a
different place. But sometimes, my mind can make them feel shock-
ingly recent.