Spitballs and Mean Girls

 You grow into your higher self by finally clearing out what was never meant to come with you.

Fucking stop it!

I screamed it so loud the whole school bus went quiet and looked up at me.

I was standing, turned all the way around in my seat, staring down at two girls who had been spitting wet paper wads into my hair for six months straight.

***

I grew up a Jehovah's Witness. No Christmas. No Valentine's Day. No birthdays, no holidays, none of it. Needless to say, I was a little different than the rest of the kids I went to school with.

By the time I hit high school, I was used to it. Being different, that is.

Then add in the fact that it was 1996, and decent curly girl hair products had yet to hit the shelves. So my big curly hair had two looks. Either crunchy and shiny with that hot pink gel they sold at Kmart, or absolutely wild and uncontrollable. No in between.

I wore braces and glasses. Pink ones.

I was a dork. If I'm being honest. Quiet. Shy. No voice. I had a select group of friends.

The really tall girl, the really chubby girl, and the girl with bright orange hair.

I don't think I need to explain that much more.

It didn't really matter. I was invisible. A wallflower moving through the shadows.

I completely avoided people and confrontation like the plague.

At the same time, I was a total brown noser.

Went above and beyond to impress my teachers. I was the girl who did all the work so the group would finish the project.

Nobody bothered me. Not really.

Not until my freshman year of high school, when two juniors found me on the bus.

They were two years older than me. Not the pretty girls. Not the popular ones. Outcasts themselves, burnouts, the two of them clearly each other's only real friends.

Staci and Leah.

Staci was round like an apple, with short blonde curly hair and a pig nose. Leah was tall, broad like a football player. Both rough looking.

Staci was the ring leader.

I don't know why they picked me. I just know that being smaller, younger, and quieter made every part of this story more intimidating.

I had been taking the bus for years. Now that I was a freshman, I was the first one on at 6:13 am and the last one off around 4:30 pm.

For as long as I could remember, I always sat right behind the bus driver. I liked it there. It was quiet. I could read.

Reading was my outlet. I still love to read.

These two girls took the bus home with me. They got off two stops ahead of me. Which didn't matter, until it did.

This story probably starts about a month into my freshman year. They sat in the row right behind me.

It started slow. Simple things, pushing on the back of my seat. I would hear them giggling, like little children getting into mischief. I didn't say anything. It wasn't that big of a deal. At first.

This went on for probably a month. Bumping, punching, kneeing the seat. Often they'd both dig their knees into the back of it for the entire ride, so I had to lean against the window because the seat protruded so much I couldn't even sit right.

I said nothing. I just read my book.

Then one day, I was leaning against the wall of the bus because they were kneeing the seat, and Staci, with her round bubble face, spat a spitball into the gap between the seat and the wall, right into my hair.

I heard them laughing immediately. Not giggling like usual. Knees to their chest, laughing.

I didn't know what it was at first. I sat back in the seat, since their knees had finally gone down. I felt the side of my hair with my fingers, cautiously, worried about what I'd find.

Wet. Soggy. Disgusting.

I gagged. I still didn't fully understand what it was. I got a tissue out of my backpack and pulled it out of my hair. A huge wad of wet white paper.

My eyes teared up. But I didn't cry. I honestly didn't know what to do.

For the rest of the long ride home. I sat silent. I didn't read. I just stared out the window. Mad. Sad.

I thought about telling my mom when I got home. It felt embarrassing.

The next day I sat on the other side of the bus. Same row, just not directly behind the driver.

When Staci and Leah got on, they sat right behind me again.

My body went on high alert. I felt their weight hit the seat. I strained to hear every word they said. I had a book out, but for the first time, I couldn't read it. Not because I didn't want to. Because I actually couldn't. My mind was too distracted.

I had no idea this was the beginning of the next six months.

That day they came with an entire tool kit. Straws. Paper. I imagined a station set up like an intense game of snowballs, a pile ready to go and something to launch them with.

The difference. I had no pile of my own to fight back with.

About twenty five spitballs came my way that day, over the seat, bendy straws curling around the edge. I didn't cry. I didn't do anything. I just sat there.

The next day, same thing. The day after that, same thing.

It was disgusting. Real spitballs. Wet paper that actually stuck, to the seat, to my book, to my hair.

When I got off the bus, I'd flip my hair upside down to get them out, littering the sidewalk with white wet confetti. What didn't fall out, I had to pull out myself, wet and stuck to the strands.

Six months. I just sat there. Pretending to read while these two hit, kicked, punched my seat, and spit wads of paper at me. I switched seats. I moved around. I even started pushing back when they'd dig their knees in. I would just hear them laugh, hysterically, at my lame, weak attempts to stop them.

There was no escaping them. Nowhere to go.

I never told my parents. Never told a teacher. I kept it to myself because I felt like a loser, like a dork, like admitting it out loud would make it more true than it already was.

Then one day, I just had it.

It was not planned. No pep talk, no decision made that morning. Something just clicked, mid spitball.

I stood up. My heart pounding.

I turned around, looked both of them dead in the eye, gritted my teeth.

And yelled.

'Fucking stop it!'

The bus went silent.

'No more!'

Everyone looked up at me. Thirty seconds I stood there staring. Okay, maybe only two seconds. But it felt like a thirty second death stare to me.

I turned around and dropped back into my seat. Breath short. Entire body shaking.

I was smiling. But also terrified.

The back of the bus went back to talking... I let the noise drown out my thoughts.

Did I just make everything worse?

I waited for retaliation that day.

Nothing.

The next day I got on that bus anxious. Genuinely scared. I took a deep breath before I climbed the steps, sat in my seat behind the driver, opened my book, and didn't read. Braced for whatever was coming.

Nothing came.

Staci and Leah got on the bus and didn't sit behind me.

For weeks I half expected retaliation that never showed up. Slowly, over the next couple of days, I started actually reading my book again.

Those two girls never looked at me again. Not a word. Not a spitball.

I didn't realize what had happened that day. I hadn't done any personal development. But that day, on instinct alone, I stood up for myself and gained something I hadn't even known I was missing. Respect.

This same story played out in my life for years, with friends, lovers, bosses. Over and over again in different ways.

Me. Not using my words. Not creating boundaries. Not communicating.

They say the universe will keep handing you the same lesson until you learn it.

My lesson? Using my voice. Setting boundaries and sticking to them. Being unapologetic about what I accept in my world.

I have spent well over six figures on personal development and business attunement. That has helped me become the woman I am still becoming.

You know, I often wonder how many years I wasted in situations that were not congruent with my values, because I didn't have the courage to speak up, or learn better ways of doing life or business.

Every situation you're tolerating, every relationship that costs more than it gives, every version of yourself you're keeping alive out of habit, is taking up space. You grow into your higher self by finally clearing out what was never meant to come with you.

Don't let six months, or six years, of staying in something that isn't serving you keep you from becoming the woman you already know is waiting.

***

House of Velani is for the woman who can already feel who she's becoming, and needs the accountability and the room to actually clear the way for her.

Meet the Expert:

Sabrina Victoria - Her Nation Global

Sabrina Victoria is the creator of Her Nation Magazine, a TEDx speaker, powerhouse entrepreneur, and founder of Her Nation Global. A bold media platform designed to elevate women in business through high-visibility features like podcasts, digital magazine covers, and transformational events. She runs a mastermind called, House of Velani, where she guides women business owners toward creating more cash flow into their business. With 20+ years in door-to-door sales and the co-creation of multiple 6- and 7-figure ventures, Sabrina leads with charisma, strategy, and an unapologetic belief in the power of community and connection. Every Wednesday she talks business, love and money in her column Unfiltered. Exclusively found here, in Her Nation Magazine.

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