Part 7: Lip Gloss, Loyalty, and the Lunchbox Incident
“Two are better than one… If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.”
—Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 (NIV)
After repeating second grade, I entered third grade already bruised—emotionally wounded by years of bullying and burdened by the sense of always being behind. Yet quietly, something new was forming within me. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but a part of me—tired of staying small—was awakening. It wasn’t confidence exactly, but it was the early spark of something defiant. Not rebellious, but protective. This was the beginning of a more resilient version of myself: a child unknowingly suiting up in emotional armor.
Alongside the pain, my personality began to shift. I found myself speaking up more, cracking jokes, and using humor as a shield. I was discovering the power of laughter—not because I was truly happy, but because it allowed me to deflect attention from what I didn’t want others to see. I still struggled to keep up academically and was acutely aware that I lagged behind most of my classmates. But despite that, two things were coming to life inside me: my love for art and my growing connection to music.
I would spend long stretches at my desk drawing, fully immersed in my imagination. I wasn’t confident in my skills—truthfully, I never saw myself as talented—but my teacher often commented on my creativity and attention to detail. She saw something in me I couldn’t yet see in myself. Looking back, I realize that much of my early art wasn’t original—I was copying the work of others whose talent I admired. My unspoken goal was to make mine just as good, if not better. I was becoming skilled at mimicking what I perceived as superior. In hindsight, I can see that I was trying to shape my identity by aligning myself with those who seemed admired—or at least those I admired. It was less about creativity and more about belonging, about trying to find value by becoming like those who appeared to have it.
Music, too, began to take up more emotional space in my life. The radio was always on at home, and I learned to associate songs with emotions I couldn’t yet name. Songs helped me feel understood, even when the world didn’t.
And then—I made my first real friend.
She was, in many ways, just like me. She was somewhat overweight (rare in those days), with a short haircut like mine and a desire to escape the strange realities of home life. We clung to each other in the most hilarious and heartfelt ways.
Our greatest obsession? Starsky and Hutch. We didn’t just watch the show—we became it. In our private universe, we were the glamorous, street-smart female versions of the iconic detectives, only better—because we were their sassy, much-needed girlfriends. We strutted around like miniature TV stars, dressed to impress with full commitment to our characters.
We carried oversized purses with scarves tied around the handles—because that’s what sophisticated women did. We wore Ditto pants, those tight-fitting, saddle-stitched wonders, and smeared on rollerball lip gloss in the juiciest artificial flavors imaginable. And let’s not forget the final touch—we reeked of Love’s Baby Soft. Not a subtle spritz, either. We bathed in it. I’m pretty sure the cloud of powdery sweetness hit people before we even entered the room. My mom eventually hid the bottle from me, probably tossing it in the trash just to escape the suffocating fog of faux powder in the air.
And because we were so cool, we decided to go big. After a few recesses spent teaching ourselves an awkward version of The Hustle, we tried out for the school’s annual talent show. We didn’t make it in—thank God. Honestly, I think we dodged a secondhand embarrassment so intense it might’ve haunted us to this very day.
Looking back, we must have looked absolutely ridiculous to any grown-up observing from afar. But in our minds? We were flawless. Untouchable. Cool beyond words.
And somehow, beneath all the silliness, that friendship became a lifeline. She was the only friend who had my back in those early years—and for a lonely kid with a medical history no one understood, that meant everything.
One day at school, that loyalty became something I could never forget.
My mom had packed an extra diaper in my lunchbox for what was supposed to be a routine change during lunch recess. But instead, it was discovered by the same group of boys who had made it their daily mission to tease and humiliate me. They didn’t waste a moment turning it into a spectacle—mocking me with taunting, made-up chants meant to wound. What hurt even more was seeing a few of the girls—ones who had recently shown signs of friendliness—join in. Their betrayal stunned me. I couldn’t believe how quickly kindness could be traded for cruelty.
And then, in the middle of that moment, my one true friend stepped in. She stood by me. She spoke up for me. It was a startling juxtaposition—betrayal and loyalty side by side—and I was left completely speechless, unable to translate the chaos of my thoughts into words.
For her, it may have been nothing more than defending her buddy. But for me, it was life-changing. It was the first time I felt truly seen and protected by someone my own age. That day cemented a bond of loyalty I never forgot.
But that loyalty also became a blueprint.
I started clinging to anyone who gave me attention or affection—regardless of whether they were a safe person. If someone “chose” me, I loved them. Even if they hurt me. Even if the connection became one-sided or unhealthy. It would take years for me to understand that not all loyalty is love, and not all attachment is safe.
Still, Ecclesiastes 4 reminds me that God designed us for connection—not perfection. That moment of friendship wasn’t just survival—it was sacred. A glimpse of the good God could bring, even in the midst of chaos. That loyal friend helped me up when I had fallen hard.
And for a third grader with a fragile sense of self, that meant the world.
What happens when loyalty becomes survival?
What happens when being chosen feels like safety?
Ecclesiastes reminds us that we were never meant to fall alone. Friendship can be a lifeline—but it can also shape how we attach, how we trust, and how we define love.
The devotional for this post explores the difference between sacred connection and unsafe attachment—offering Scripture, prayer, and reflection for those who learned early to cling tightly to anyone who stayed.