I Don’t Hate Her. I Just Don’t Entertain “Grown” Mean Girls

There is always one woman in the room who gets strangely uncomfortable when she sees you walk in. She stiffens. She fixes her hair. She pretends she isn’t looking at you while absolutely looking at you. And deep down she knows exactly what time it is.

She knows I don’t like her.

Not in a dramatic, high-school-hallway way. Not in a petty, eye-roll-across-the-table way. Just a quiet, dignified, grown-woman knowing.

What she can’t seem to grasp is why.

And that’s my favorite part.

Because the “why” has been living in her own actions this entire time.

This is the same woman who has made snide comments about my home or how I decorate it, as if joy and style were a personal threat to her. 

The one who whispered little digs to mutual acquaintances, then stood in front of me smiling like butter wouldn’t melt. The one who used that sugary-sweet “just joking” voice to insult me straight to my face. The one who acted confused afterward, as if her behavior evaporated the second she turned her head.

Women like this don’t forget what they’ve done.

They just don’t expect you to stop accepting it.

Let me be very clear. I am no longer in the business of participating in anybody’s Mean Girl Olympics. Not at this age. Not with this level of peace. Not with this amount of healing behind me and this much purpose ahead.

I choose my energy the way I choose my outfits, intentionally, confidently, and knowing exactly what doesn’t belong on me.

If you’ve insulted me more times than you’ve respected me, you don’t get access to my presence.

If you’ve tried to publicly downplay me while privately obsessing over me, you don’t get my conversation.

If you’ve made sport out of questioning my life while ignoring the mess in your own, you definitely don’t get my friendship.

Here’s the truth some women don’t want to hear.

If your life feels chaotic, heavy, or stuck, you might want to look at the common denominator.

You can blame everyone around you, but eventually the mirror starts telling the truth.

Because women who spend their lives judging others rarely love themselves.

Women who keep score rarely grow.

Women who tear down, mock, belittle, or condescend are not confident. They are bleeding insecurity everywhere they go.

So no, I don’t hate her.

Hate takes energy.

And I’m selective now.

What I do is protect my peace.

I don’t sit at tables where I’m the topic instead of the guest.

I don’t entertain conversations that drain me.

I don’t water friendships that wilt the second I turn my back.

I don’t respond to confusion that is really just denial wearing lipstick. 

Walking away from disrespect isn’t dramatic.

It’s maturity.

And if she truly wants to know why I don’t speak to her anymore, she can ask her behavior. It’ll give a more honest answer than she ever has.

I’ve grown too much to shrink myself back down.

I’ve healed too deeply to reopen old wounds.

I’ve learned too many lessons to sit with women who still haven’t opened the first chapter.

She knows why I don’t like her.

She just didn’t expect me to finally choose myself.

And that, my darling, is what grown-woman strength looks like.