When Pain Becomes Power

The First Time I Learned What it Felt Like to be Left Out

Some memories soften with time. Others stay sharp – etched into who we become.

One of mine resurfaced this week, carrying me back to the first time I felt the sting of being left out – and to how deeply that moment shaped the woman I am today.

When I was a little girl, we moved to a new town in New Jersey. A single-family house on a quiet cul-de-sac with “great schools.” I remember stepping outside that first afternoon and spotting a cluster of kids playing kickball in the street. They all knew each other already – siblings, neighbors, a ready-made team.

I was a bubbly kid. I walked over and asked if I could play.

Instead of a yes, I got laughter. Not the good kind.

I remember turning back toward the house, clutching the small necklace I wore every day, a tiny dog curled in a basket, as if holding it could hold me together. By the time I reached the door, tears were streaming down my face.

I didn’t have words for it then. I just knew it hurt. It was my first real experience of social rejection, and even at six years old, I felt the sting of not belonging.

When The Pattern Repeats

Junior high brought more of the same.

I met a girl in one class, another in a different class, one through religious school, another through the flag-twirling team. Thrilled, I introduced them all. We became a group.

And then, seemingly overnight, one girl started whispering lies and pulling the others away.

Suddenly, I was the outsider again – this time to a circle I had created myself.

High school followed the same script. I gathered friends from different parts of my life. They formed a clique. I was shut out.

Again.

I never understood why. I just felt the betrayal – sharp, confusing, and deeply personal. Looking back, I can see how those early experiences of childhood rejection quietly shaped my relational patterns for years.

The Wound That Didn’t Stay in Childhood

The pattern didn’t stop when I grew up.

In my twenties, it showed up in new settings:

• A summer down the shore where a group of women iced me out overnight
• A new job where a “queen bee” felt threatened and turned others against me

Different faces. Same story.

And even though I eventually found the deep, lasting friendships I’ve written about before, these earlier experiences had already left their mark.

Writing this now, I can still feel the ache. Decades later, the pain hasn’t vanished.

What it did do was shape how I navigated friendships, especially in midlife, when emotional resilience and vulnerability matter more than ever.

I stayed guarded in groups of women. Self-protection became second nature, even when what I truly wanted was belonging and authentic connection.

I wanted closeness, but rarely let my guard fully down. I often chose the safety of solitude – or Joe’s company (fortunately, he’s my best friend).

Male friendships felt easier. No cliques. No undercurrents. No competition.

And yet, deep down, I still longed for a circle of supportive, loving girlfriends.

How Pain Can Become Purpose

Sometimes the very wounds that once made us feel excluded become the foundation for emotional growth and personal reinvention.

Here’s what I see now: those painful experiences forged my greatest gift.

Because I know exactly what it feels like to be left out, I refuse to let anyone around me feel that way. When I spot someone lingering on the edges of a room, something in me lights up. I walk over. I introduce them. I draw them in.

I don’t care what they look like. How much money they have. Their race, gender, religious beliefs…

None of that matters to me.

What matters is simple:

Are they kind?
Are they open?
Are they real?

Even now, when I encounter women who feel closed, cliquish, or blocked behind their own walls, it still stirs something old – the knot in my stomach, the whisper that says, “Here we go again.”

When that happens, I pause and remind myself:

This feeling is old. This moment is new. Their behavior is about them, not me. I get to stay open.

That’s the quiet alchemy of pain – the transformation of old emotional wounds into resilience, compassion, and deeper self-awareness.

What once cut me now shapes how I welcome others – with warmth, intention, and a wide-open heart. Sometimes with a hug, too. (We East Coasters are huggers.)

What experience from your past still tugs at you – a moment of rejection, exclusion, or not belonging – and how might it have shaped the way you show up for others today?

Try This: Get Curious

When something lands harder than you expect – a cool glance, a group’s inside joke, a sudden wave of irritation or sadness – pause and ask:

What value is being stirred here?

Kindness. Inclusion. Fairness. Loyalty.

Then put it to use.

Invite someone in.
Offer a warm hello.

Speak up.

Or choose openness, even when pulling back would feel safer.

That’s how pain transforms – not by disappearing, but by becoming power.