Note: The names of the people discussed in this narrative have been changed.
We often write off our most impactful middle school memories as childish or not important in the grand scheme of things. For years, though, I felt the effects of a single event rippling out into almost every aspect of my life, even though it took place while I was still proud to call myself a preteen. Not long ago, my friend asked me what my “butterfly effect moment” was. Which moment, of all the many things I’ve experienced in my life, had the biggest impact on who I am today? I initially said it might have been the day I first heard about Notre Dame, or maybe the day I met one of my best friends, but both answers felt wrong. There is, however, one fundamental moment in my life that I still feel the effects of today, no matter how insignificant it seems at first glance.
Starting sixth grade was special because it was the first year we could choose where we sat at lunch. It was also the first time my class, which had been close-knit until that point, was divided into clearly defined cliques. That first day, walking into the already-crowded cafeteria felt as terrifying as anything I’d ever done. Up until then, every day of elementary school I’d walk to the same table everyone in my homeroom was required to sit at. The hardest decision I had to make was whether I wanted to sit in the middle or at the end of the bench. As soon as lunchtime hit that first day of sixth grade, this thing I’d been waiting years for—something that signified the end of being a kid and the beginning of being on the precipice of my teenage years—filled me with dread. There were only a few empty tables left; the rest were already being filled slowly.
Other classmates stood scattered in the unfamiliar room, eyes darting around frantically, just as mine were. Did I sit with my friends from homeroom? Or maybe the girls I’d had in class the previous year? I found myself searching for the girls everyone was naturally drawn to, scanning the room to see if I could casually end up at the same table as them. They were who everyone wanted to be friends with; they were the prettiest, the most popular, the most talented in whatever they did. Although I would never say it out loud, I wanted to be like them. As soon as I saw my opening—a friend from dance catching my eye from her seat and waving—I decided to take it. With shaking hands gripping my tray, I walked over to them and sat down.
For the first few months, it was good. Granted, I wasn’t invited to the sleepovers, but less than half the table was invited anyways. And sure, I wasn’t asked to get ready with them before football games, but they always told me where to find them once we were there. It was good. I was in all the group chats, people came to me for advice in resolving issues between each other, I was known for always having a shoulder to cry on at recess, and, most importantly, I still sat in that coveted twelfth spot at the lunch table every day. I had never had a group of friends like this before, and though I knew it wasn’t perfect, it was mine.
I often wondered how long it could last. Would I get tired of feeling like a last resort or would I finally be fully welcomed into the group? Should I stay with them or find somewhere new to sit where I might be treated as an equal? As it turned out, I didn’t need to make the choice because someone else made it for me. When a new student showed up—a teammate of many of the girls at the table who had just moved from the neighboring town—it only made sense that she would sit with us. Eventually, someone must’ve gotten tired of squeezing thirteen people at a table that was supposed to fit twelve.
It was the start of what I would for years call the “Madison Thing,” named after the girl everyone had generally accepted as the ringleader of the group. Nothing was said at the table without a glance in her direction, making sure the joke landed or the gossip was exciting enough. She was invited to every sleepover, every birthday party, every trip to the coffee shop after school. Star swimmer and soccer player, at the top of the class, and the girl every guy seemed to have a crush on, she had this way of making you feel bad about yourself simply by existing next to her. That day, she casually introduced her imaginary friend to the table, saying her name was Gertrude and that she just would not leave her alone. Everyone took turns calling the empty space next to Madison names, laughing and miming kicks and shooing “Gertrude” away.
“Now,” Madison announced, eyes gleaming, “let’s all take a moment to virtually kill Gertrude.”
Everyone closed their eyes for a beat, before simultaneously breaking out into laughter, doubling over and struggling to catch their breath. I laughed along, my smile not quite reaching my eyes. It felt like someone had forgotten to let me in on their joke, but I still so desperately wanted to be included that I didn’t even stop laughing to consider why that could be.
The conversation strayed from this mysterious Gertrude eventually, and I followed as it jumped from topic to topic. I still had the feeling that I was missing something, a tingling unease in the pit of my stomach. I ignored it in favor of trying to enjoy the rest of lunch as much as possible. Immediately after lunch, I had gym class with a few of the girls from my table. I got ready as usual in our spot in the back corner of lockers. As I was about to leave to go into the gym, Avery, one of my closest friends at the table and the reason I sat there in the first place, tugged on my arm nervously, saying she had something to tell me.
“They were talking about you,” Avery said, pity in her voice and tears pooling in the corner of her eyes.
I made her repeat it, even though I knew exactly what she meant. I felt faint, the sound of crashing waves rushing through my ears.
“You were Gertrude. Madison made her up so she could talk about you when you were right there.”
She wasn’t able to say anything more before the bell went off and we had to file into the gym like normal, as if anything about how I felt right then was normal. I went through the motions of the next hour in a daze. Avery’s eyes were ringed red all throughout class. I still remember the anger surging through me, blurring my eyes and making my entire body shake.
Why was she the one crying? I couldn’t fall apart—not without giving those girls another reason to laugh about me when I was gone, this time using whatever name they wanted. All I could do was hold my head up, and focus on my anger rather than the hurt—act like it didn’t feel like something was breaking inside me.
I had to start over after that. I found a new group: friends of mine from elementary school. I expected it to be this grand reawakening of the person I had suppressed in order to fit in at the other table, a submergence into cleansing water after months of collecting dirt and grime. Instead, I just retreated into myself. I didn’t talk much at lunch the rest of that year, didn’t push to rekindle my old friendships. I knew none of those girls were the type to do what Madison and the others had done, but I couldn’t give them a reason to cast me out too—not when I was sure everyone had heard what had happened. My class was small enough that I wasn’t sure I would have a third chance before being branded untouchable, inherently flawed because I couldn’t hold onto a group of friends.
I had never been given a straight answer about what I had done to give Madison a reason to cast me out. Was I too loud? Too quiet? Annoying? Boring? Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be it again. So, I shut myself off. I started critiquing every interaction I had and training myself not to be too much of anything, so much so that I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to allow myself to just be. I became as adept as I could at managing others’ impressions of me to avoid giving a negative one. I studied what others said and how they acted so I could mirror them.
“You made an entirely happy person feel like they had no friends, no one to talk to, nowhere to go,” I told Madison once, years after everyone else had moved on and forgotten about the imaginary Gertrude and the real girl she was a placeholder for. It didn’t matter to me how she responded—or whether she responded at all. In order to move on, I needed to finally show her how deeply she hurt me; that although I may have looked perfectly happy on the surface, I would always be impacted by something she hardly remembered.
Piece by piece, I built myself back up again. However, there were cracks in my confident facade: I would never quite get back the lightheartedness of childhood, the assurance that my full self was never too much or not enough, or the ability to accept another’s gesture of friendship at face value. It took less than half an hour to tear me down, and years before I even believed I was worthy of repair. It was only in the comfort and security of my new friend group that I started to understand that it was never about me. Madison was the type of girl who needed to feel power over others to lessen the insecurities she would feel otherwise. She found a weakness in me—a desperation to fit in—and went after it in the only way she knew how. But she didn’t break me.
It took almost two years to trust my new friends enough to share with them this thing that has been a source of so much pain and shame. Even now, I’ll feel self-doubt gnawing at me, asking if my friendships are as one-sided as they were all those years ago. I’m no longer that tentative and hesitant twelve-year-old, standing in the middle of the cafeteria with just two months until the end of the school year, searching the room with a burning lump in her throat, wondering who will take her in. Those feelings still exist, hidden beneath years of telling myself I deserve to be loved, to have friends. My butterfly moment is one I’m reluctant to share. Sharing it puts my vulnerability on full display—a testament to its enduring impact—but sharing it is also necessary to prove, not to Madison but to myself, that I am not broken. She didn’t break me.
Discussion Questions
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How do you define your butterfly effect moment?
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Based on the biographical facts she shares, regarding her experience of being bullied and her desire to try to manage how her peers perceived her to avoid further social rejection, do you find Molly Maguire’s essay to be representative of the experience of being bullied or unique solely to her? Is there something universal about Maguire’s narrative argument or is it particular only to her?
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What argument is embedded in Maguire’s narrative about her experience of surviving an encounter with a bully? What is Maguire’s purpose in making this argument?
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One could argue that Maguire balances an appeal to logic (how and why she tried to manage others’ impressions of her to fit in and avoid the pain of additional bullying following her “butterfly moment”), ethos (how she gained self-knowledge about bullying through experiencing it firsthand), and pathos (why one should try to practice self-compassion and positive self-talk in the wake of bullying). How do you see Maguire using the three appeals (logos, ethos, and pathos) in support of her argument? How does her use of these appeals impact your assessment of Maguire’s credibility?
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