I was bullied quite a bit growing up. I have always had a full imagination, fearless self expression, and the confidence to allow my personality to shine bright. These traits were always encouraged at home, but they were not received well by other kids.

Kids can be cruel. I was the weird one. I stuck out and it took no time for the other kids in my grade to decide that I did not fit in. Making fun of me quickly devolved from pinpointing certain quirks of mine and focusing negative attention on the things that made me peculiar, to making fun of any part of me they could, whether or not it was worth bringing any attention to.

I remember once, it must have been in first grade, it was my turn to share for show and tell. I do not have any recollection of what I had to share that day, but I know as I was showing my trinket to the class, my hands were on my hips and I was gently swaying back and forth as I told my story.

Our desks were set up in clusters of four and we had an arranged seating plan. The two other girls in my cluster were best friends, and they did not like me much. Once I returned to my desk after my go at show and tell, those two girls mocked my presentation. Whenever the teacher had her back turned to us, they would both stand up, place their hands on their hips, and twist their bodies back and forth dramatically to demonstrate how “dumb” I looked at the front of the class.

Like I said, the reasons for my torment became about whatever the other kids could find.

Some things were easier to find than others.

When I was a kid, my ears stuck out quite a bit. My Mr. Potato Head ears were easy to spot and therefore, easy for kids to poke fun at. It was used often as a final stab to really drive a point home.

“You can’t play with us. Go away. Monkey.”

As the years went by, my parents would watch helplessly as I came home every day, more exhausted and broken than I was the day previous. My mom would sit with me, look into my eyes that were red with tears, and listen to my quivering voice as I shared with her the new stories from school, and the new things the other kids had said and done to hurt me. With each new story, she became more desperate to find a way to make my school life a little easier.

One sunshine-filled day in the summer between grade five and grade six, my mom brought my sister and I to the public pool to play. Before we left our house, my mom tied my hair back into a perfect ponytail, sprouting up on the top of my head to keep the hair out of my face as I swam. She took my sisters hair in three strands and formed an even braid that fell straight down the middle of her back. She packed our bags with our towels, swimsuits, and water bottles, dropped us out at the front, and told us to have a good time.

There were a group of kids at the pool that day that I had never met before. They were from town and attended a different school than I did. They were in one grade below me, and one above my sister.

For whatever reason, that day, they decided to target me and make me feel small. They would wait for me to pick out a toy, like a ball or a pool noodle, and then make it their objective to take it away from me. They would taunt me with the toys in a ruthless game of piggy-in-the-middle with no intent of ever letting me have the toy back. They would point and laugh at my exposed, silly ears and shout “Monkey Ears!” “Elephant!” and “Elf!” from the other side of the pool.

At school, this sort of thing was normal. At school, I figured I had developed a reputation that the other kids just fed off throughout the years I had been there. I figured that outside of school, I would not be seen the same way. I figured I would stand a better chance of forming friendships and being liked by kids that did not know what things were like for me at school. So that day at the swimming pool, it hurt far worse than any regular day at school ever did.

The day at the swimming pool hurt more because it made me believe I was destined for ridicule. If perfect strangers still chose to target me, out of all the other kids there at the pool, then perhaps that was just the way things were meant to be for me.

A swimming pool is a good place to be if you need to cry and you want no one to know. You can simply dive deep under water when you feel a new sob forming in your chest and fighting behind your eyes, and when your eyes become crimson and glazed, it is easy enough to blame the chlorine. When you cry at a pool, you do not need to run away and hide. When you do not run away and hide, you do not raise suspicion and you do not draw attention to your sadness. Sometimes when you need to cry, it is better not to draw attention to your sadness. A swimming pool is a good place to be if you need to cry and you want no one to know.

But you cannot ever fool your mom.

The moment I got back into the car that day, my mom knew something was wrong. I knew it was no use trying to keep it a secret, so hesitantly, I told my mom what had happened at the pool. My mom became more desperate to try and find a way to make my life easier.

A new conversation was sparked after that day at the pool. My parents sat me down and asked me if I wanted to get surgery to have my ears pinned back.

It was not about conforming, or about changing myself to make other people like me more. If that were true, I would have to change too much, and I would no longer be myself. The truth is, and always has been, that I love who I am. I just wished other people would love me too. Pinning my ears, I knew would not do that, but that was not the goal.

It was not about changing my physical appearance to make myself more beautiful. I was beautiful enough just as I was, and I knew that. Removing everyone else from the equation, my ears did not bother me any. They did not make me uneasy when I saw them in my reflection, and I never minded the way they poked out from my hair. My family told me they were adorable; I preferred that opinion.

It was only about giving the other kids one less thing to talk about.

Most importantly, it was my choice.

I did not make my choice in a day, and my parents would not have allowed me to. As the next several weeks ensued, we would have deep conversations where together, my parents and I would weigh out every pro and con. They wanted me to be entirely certain either way. They told me that if I knew that in the long run, despite the backlash of my peers, I would be happiest as I was, that I should stay just the same. They also had me know that if I wanted the change, it was something they ensured would happen.

After much contemplation and in depth thought, I decided I wanted the surgery. I knew I would like myself just the same either way and in truth, like my mom, I was desperate for my life to be easier. If the surgery would not change my opinion of myself, then the most important thing was to lessen the taunting.

I also wanted to be able to tuck a flower behind my ear. All the pretty girls in the movies would tuck a flower behind their ears, and I wanted to experience that feeling of pretty.

And so, things were set in motion.

Doctors appointments were made, and more discussions were to happen. I would have the same conversations as I had with my parents with my family doctor and later, my surgeon. Every person along each new step wanted to be certain that I was sure I was making the right choice, and for the right reasons. It was a very big decision for a very young girl to make, after all.

Eventually, the surgery was booked. My mom booked it for the beginning of the following summer. She chose to book it in the summer so that there was enough time after my surgery that the kids at school would not notice a change when I returned to school. If they noticed, it would give them another reason to hurt me, and it would likely be far worse.

I do not remember a ton of detail of how I felt leading up to the day of the surgery. I also do not remember much from the day of up to the few moments before getting the anesthesia (besides being wheeled through the hospital on a bed, and the peculiar feeling of staring at the ceiling and up a nurses nose while in motion that went with it). What I do remember about the moments before being put under, however, is actually pretty terrifying.

I laid in the small hospital bed, surrounded by a handful of hospital staff, and holding my mother’s hand. The doctor told me my mother would be there with me through the whole surgery. Even in that moment, I knew that he was lying. Still, I let him comfort me. I was then given my dose of sleepy time and instructed to count backwards from ten. By number six or seven, I was too fatigued to make my lips continue to form the upcoming numbers, but I was not yet asleep. I heard the doctor tell my mom it was time for her to leave the room. I then heard him say, “let’s begin.” I was petrified! They thought that I was under and in my state of paralysis and exhaustion, I was unable to warn them that it was not the case. The thought of being awake through the surgery filled me with anxiety. I needed to force myself to fall asleep, which meant letting go of that anxiety and fear, which is not an easy feat. Fortunately, somehow, I was able to, and I am happy to say that I do not remember the events of my surgery. Thank God.

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed in an empty, white and grey room. I was very disoriented, and the confusion led to brief moments of fear before my mom came quietly through the door. Smiling, she gifted me a fluorescent rainbow stuffed elephant. The choice of an elephant was perhaps a wink at the cause for my surgery, but it also happens to be my favorite animal! I still needed a few moments to figure out where I was and what was going on, but it was easier to navigate with the warmth of my mom’s presence.

Recovery sucked.

For a while, I had a thick white bandage wrapped around my head and in the beginning, I spent many days in bed. Being so young, having to give up a chunk of my summer felt like a giant sacrifice.

And there was the itch.

Oh, the itch.

It was constant and loud and often became so intense that it felt painful. If I say I had an itch in the tiny space behind my ears for a while, it does not sound like it could have been that awful, but it was persistent and everlasting and fluctuated in intensity. Believe me, it was absolute torture.

It was unbearable.

Truly. Unbearable.

My doctors informed me that it was important I refrained from touching my ears as they healed, and my parents continuously reinforced the doctor’s words whenever they would catch me creatively trying to find ways to put the itch at ease.

One night, I could not take it anymore. The itch was keeping me awake and I was growing desperate to finally catch some sleep. Enclosed by the four walls of my room, behind a tightly closed door, I convinced myself to scratch. I promised myself one little scratch, and it would be my secret. I wiggled my finger behind my bandage and gave myself short, sweet relief.

I had stitches behind my ears that were to decompose and fall off on their own, but when I scratched my itch, I felt the stitches crumble from underneath my fingernail and I terrified myself into believing that I had just undone the entire surgery. I would not find out if I had done any damage until the bandage was finally removed, but as that day grew nearer, I became more and more frightened of the disappointment it would cause if I did in fact reveal one floppy ear.

After much anticipation, the day finally came to remove the bandage. To my relief, there was no reason to have been under so much stress. I was then able to be elated by the results!

I still had to keep them covered with something for some time after. “A small scarf or a bandana” were a couple of the suggestions given to me.

Shortly after being freed from the bandage, I went to a carnival with my immediate, and some extended family. Before we went, we needed to find something to cover my ears. My mom took me to a dollar store where I found a thin piece of cheetah print material that could be wrapped around my head and tied into a headband. I worried about looking silly or suspicious with it on, so my mom took some extra time to reassure me and to help make it look and feel like a fashion piece. I then grew to love it, and I began to feel like I was making a new, trendy statement. Instead of hoping people would not notice it, I began to hope they would.

Summer drew to a close and I healed enough to take all covers off of my ears. With the new school year soon to come, I grew more worried that my classmates would notice my small metamorphosis.

I began junior high with a new appearance. My hair bleached much blonder, and my lashes black with mascara would become a new normal. I decorated the freckles across my nose with glitter and I colored my eyelids with baby pink eyeshadow. I discovered a love for lip gloss, and I had a whole new wardrobe of clothes. With electric heat and a clamp, I straightened my hair flat, and my ears did not poke out.

The first few days of school, I walked the halls nervously, anticipating a whisper, a murmur, or a comment. Perhaps I would turn to see a finger pointed at the side of my head. Perhaps I would hear judging giggles from the other side of class.

But there was nothing. My mom was right, nobody noticed.

It was a silence that filled me with joy! I did not fail to notice the absence of comments on my ears. No longer did anyone call me monkey or laugh at the way they stuck out.

I was still made fun of for various other things, but I had successfully taken away their ability to ridicule me for my ears. It felt amazing! In fact, having that piece of information in my head helped me shrug off whatever the next thing was that the mean kids could come up with. I was gifted satisfaction and it brought me a great deal of comfort.

Doesn’t that speak loudly, though? My peers only noticed my ears when they stuck out; when they were different and weird and an easy target for ridicule. They saw those ears every day for years, but when I changed and had them pinned back to be like everyone else, despite every classmate knowing me well for my tiny flaw, no one noticed at all. It goes to show true intent. The people that surrounded me every day, they chose to seek out something negative, they chose to find something they could critique, and that they could use to put me down. That is all they were looking for, and that is all they continued to look for once the “problem” was “fixed,” and because there was no longer a problem to be found, it was like it never even happened. That’s how their power was really taken away, because that is what lasted with me. I could find solace in knowing that it was not about me, it was about them. I no longer had to feel shame for the next things they found to try and hurt me with because I had learned through ear surgery of all things, that the problem did not ever lie within me. It only lied with how they decided to view me; with the things they decided to find, and just because they found them did not mean that I was flawed. It just meant that they were trying to cause me pain, but they couldn’t if I didn’t allow it to hurt. It did not need to hurt if I didn’t see it as a problem. A perfect loop.

Like I said, they weren’t looking for the good in me. They could not see how much I had to offer; how truly excellent I could be, but as long as I saw it in myself, I had already won. In that way, I could always be ahead of them. That is how the power was given to me.

Now, many years later, when I look at myself in the mirror, I do not regret my decision. Perhaps my intrusive ears were adorable as a kid, but I am not sure that would have carried on into adulthood. In my teenage and adult years, I have decorated my ears with various studs and gems, and now my ears are a part of my body that bring me a ton of joy.

The way that this memory affects me the most is not recalling the kids at school or at the pool, It is not the impact of having a surgery at such a young age, nor is it remembering the feeling of relief returning to school after it had healed. It is the appreciation I have for my parents for giving me that choice. How incredible of them to grant me the opportunity to free myself from a dark shadow that followed me as a kid, and often weighed me down. I am so grateful to have parents as good as them.

This is not to say that I think surgery is a problem-solver, nor is it necessarily to say that I would encourage another to make the same choices as me, but circumstantially, it was the right choice for my life. It is a choice that I am so glad I was given the chance to make.