Soft Rebellions: Letting Go of the “Nice Girl”

I’ve always been a little different. The kind of different that didn’t feel edgy or cool — just quietly… other. Growing up, I struggled to make friends, and even when I had people around me who were technically there, I still felt alone. Like I was watching connection happen from behind glass, never quite inside the moment myself.

For a long time, that bothered me more than I could admit. I didn’t understand what “having a friend” was supposed to feel like, because even when I had them — or when adults told me I did — it never felt real. It’s a strange ache, to sit in a room full of people and still feel like no one truly sees you.

Now that I’m older, I’ve grown with my differences instead of around them. And the biggest truth I’ve had to swallow? Not everyone is going to like me, want me around, or understand me — and that’s okay.
Does it hurt sometimes? Hell yeah, it does. Feeling like the outsider never gets easy. But I’ve come to see that there’s a quiet strength in not shapeshifting for the crowd. There’s a kind of rebellion in choosing to be exactly who you are, even when it costs you comfort.

Even in my rebellion, there were rules.
I grew up sheltered — in a world where certain expressions of individuality weren’t exactly embraced. So I learned how to rebel quietly. Subtly. My soft rebellions didn’t look like sneaking out or breaking big rules. They looked like band tees, black eyeliner, studded belts, checkered Vans and Converse worn until the soles gave out. It was the closest I could get to shouting without raising my voice.

If it had been entirely up to me? I’d have had a dozen piercings, fire-engine red hair with blond and black streaks — the kind of bold, “look-at-me” hair that made me feel like maybe I could be more than the girl who always felt like an outsider. That was the dream version of me, back then. And now, funny enough, I don’t even dye my hair. I don’t even wear eyeliner. Maybe I used up a lifetime’s supply of both.

But there’s a soft spot in my heart for that girl. The one who pushed boundaries the only way she could — with clothes, with music, with small declarations that said I’m here, and I’m not like the rest of you. Even if she still didn’t know exactly where she fit.

I grew up in church. I was a good kid. A sweet girl. I was nice — and I was known for being nice. The kind of girl who didn’t ruffle feathers, who followed the rules, who said “yes ma’am” and “no thank you” and sat quietly in the back row when her heart wanted to be somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere along the way, I think I absorbed the label: goodie two shoes. Whether people were actually saying it or I just imagined the spotlight on me — it felt like everyone expected me to be the sweet one. The well-behaved one. And even now, decades later, I still catch myself performing for that imaginary audience. Still feeling like the light is a little too bright on me, even when no one’s really looking.

That’s something I’m still working through.

And even beyond the “nice girl” box, I learned how to fly under the radar. Not bad, not perfect. Just… getting by. Quietly.
I didn’t make waves. I didn’t ask for much. Even when I needed help — I wouldn’t ask. Not because I didn’t need it, but because I was afraid of being a nuisance. I’d freeze, shut down, and keep trying to figure it out on my own.

That’s how I still am, in a lot of ways.
When something’s wrong, I retreat inward. I stew. I overthink. I adjust. I carry it in silence until I find a solution that feels safe enough to say out loud. It’s not always healthy — but it’s what I learned.

There’s something about being the one who’s “fine” all the time that makes it hard to admit when you’re not. Like the moment you say you’re struggling, people won’t know what to do with it. Or worse — they’ll tell you it’s not that bad.

So you keep it in. You fix it yourself. You move on.
But lately, I’ve been asking: what if I didn’t?

I’ve always been nice. It’s practically stitched into the fabric of who I am — or at least, who I thought I was supposed to be.

But the older I get, the more I realize: I don’t have to be just “nice.” I can be bold. I can be direct. I can be sarcastic, moody, soft, assertive, funny, fiery, quiet, complicated — all of it. And none of it makes me any less good. I don’t have to shrink myself into politeness just to keep the peace. I don’t have to stay inside this imaginary box — the one I built, the one my family helped shape — where I’m always respectful, always polite, always composed.

For so long, I thought being a good person meant being perfect. That to be worthy of love or respect, I had to fit this mold. And if I slipped up, or didn’t smile, or said the wrong thing — I’d somehow fall short. It created this constant inner tug-of-war: wanting to be real, but also wanting to be seen as “good.” And truthfully, it made me lose parts of myself along the way.

But now? I’m learning that goodness is so much more than being agreeable. It’s being honest. It’s showing up fully. It’s making space for the messy, unfiltered, evolving parts of me — the ones that don’t always make sense, but are still mine.

So yes — I moved away right out of high school, still clinging to the idea that I had to be good. I tried. I really did. But eventually, I slipped into what I lovingly refer to as my “wild” phase — which, let’s be honest, was pretty tame compared to most. Still, it was exactly what I needed.

That chapter cracked something open in me. It helped me see that I’m not a “church girl.” Not the “nice girl” in the way I once thought I had to be.
Sure, I’m still kind. I care deeply.
But I’m also fiery. I’m salty. I’m sarcastic and smart and funny and loud. I can be warm and soft, or sharp and stubborn.
I can hold so many things at once — if I just let myself.

And maybe that’s the biggest rebellion of all: giving myself permission to be the whole version of me.
Not the one I thought I had to be.
Not the one they expected.
Just… me.

When it comes to fitting in and liking things that are popular — the things other people love — I tell myself to get over it.
Because I’m not the lost little girl anymore, holding grudges against people just for being themselves and enjoying what they enjoy. I’m not that kid who resented the crowd for loving something just because.
Still, there’s this little tinge of ick that stings whenever hype surrounds something and I’m just like… ew.

Maybe it’s a leftover from that outsider feeling, or maybe it’s just my honest self calling it like it is. Either way, I’m learning that’s okay too. That liking or not liking something doesn’t define me — or anyone else.

So yeah. I might still roll my eyes sometimes. But now, I let myself do it without shame — and without holding onto bitterness. Because at the end of the day, being myself means embracing all the layers — even the parts that don’t fit neatly.