Dear Bullies,

You probably don’t remember me. But I remember you.

I remember you in the hallways of St. Francis, laughing when I couldn’t find a gym shirt big enough. I remember you in middle school, whispering about how I wasn’t as skinny as the “cool” girls. I remember you in high school, where you never let me forget that I didn’t fit your idea of pretty. You made sure I knew I was “different.” You said it with your words, your looks, your smirks.

For years, I believed you. I thought my worth was tied to the size of my jeans. I thought I’d never be enough unless I shrank myself down into something you could accept. I skipped meals. I hid in baggy clothes. I learned to walk quickly past you, eyes down, pretending I didn’t hear.

But here’s the thing you didn’t know: the girl you made fun of grew up.

She moved to Philadelphia.
She found a job she’s proud of.
She built a circle of friends and family who love her for who she is, not for the number on a scale.
She has a dog who thinks she’s the greatest person alive.
She has a boyfriend who looks at her like she’s the only person in the room.
And most importantly, she has herself—finally, fully, unapologetically.

I don’t think about you much anymore, but when I do, I feel… nothing. Not anger. Not pain. Just this quiet knowing that I made it out of that world and into one I created for myself.

You might still be the same people, or maybe you’ve grown too. Either way, I hope you’ve learned that cruelty says more about the person dishing it out than the person receiving it.

So this isn’t revenge. This isn’t even forgiveness. It’s just closure.

I’m living a life I love, and you? You’re just part of the story that got me here.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy a hot dog—and not care about the calories.