Friendship, Kindness, and the Cost of Belonging

By Lauren Tarzia

February often brings conversations about love and friendship, but for many of us, it also stirs up memories of belonging or not belonging at all.

As a child and teen, I remember how hard it was to fit in. I wanted to be accepted so badly that I started changing who I was. I learned how to read the room, how to mirror other people, how to say the “right” things, even when they weren’t true. I lied about myself sometimes, not because I wanted to deceive, but because I wanted to survive socially.

I had social tools. I could make friends. But it came at a cost.

There was a moment I still remember clearly at field hockey practice: a teammate telling me to my face, “No one wants you here.” When you’re a kid, words like that don’t just hurt; they become part of how you see yourself. I couldn’t understand why certain girls disliked me so intensely, and I assumed it must be something deeply wrong with me.

I never told my parents. I didn’t want to worry them, and I didn’t yet have the language to explain the loneliness I felt. That loneliness didn’t always show on the outside, but inside, it slowly wore me down.

Eventually, I did find my way back to friendship with other people. Life moved on. But decades later, when someone reached out to clear her conscience and explain what had really happened back then, something clicked into place. Not the details, but the realization that the rejection was never about who I was.

That realization landed differently years later, after I was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 40.

Learning about ADHD, especially how it shows up in girls, has been like rereading my childhood with new eyes. The masking. The people-pleasing. The intense need to belong. The emotional sensitivity. So many of the choices I made as a kid and teenager suddenly made sense. I wasn’t “too much” or “not enough.” I was navigating a world that wasn’t built for how my brain worked.

And that’s when my story stopped being just about me. Because now I’m a parent.

I have a son in fourth grade who is autistic. I also have a seven-year-old with ADHD and anxiety. And I find myself wondering: what would my childhood have been like if I hadn’t had those social tools? If masking hadn’t been an option? If I couldn’t blend in just enough to escape being completely isolated? That question changes everything.

For many neurodivergent children, especially those with disabilities, the option to “fake it” doesn’t exist. When exclusion happens, it can be constant, visible, and deeply painful. And without intentional kindness from others, that loneliness can shape how a child sees themselves for years to come.

That’s why conversations about neurodiversity and disability matter to every parent, not just those raising neurodivergent kids or kids with disabilities.

We tell children to “be kind,” but kindness isn’t learned through a phrase. It’s learned through example.

Children are always watching us and listening to us.  They hear how we talk about other people.They notice who gets included and who doesn’t.They absorb our empathy, our judgment, and our silence.

If we want our kids to grow into compassionate humans, we have to model what that actually looks like: curiosity instead of fear, inclusion instead of avoidance, and understanding instead of assumptions.

And sometimes, kindness takes courage. Not the loud, attention-seeking kind but the quiet kind. The kind that asks a child to step away from the in-crowd. To say hello when it would be easier to stay silent. To sit next to someone when no one else does. To risk a moment of embarrassment in order to do what’s right.

The children who make these choices aren’t trying to be brave. They’re choosing to be genuine. They aren’t focused on saving their own skin or protecting their social standing. They’re responding with empathy instead of self-preservation.  And they don’t learn that courage in isolation.

Children learn what is safe to stand up for by watching the adults around them. When we model curiosity instead of discomfort, when we speak about differences with respect, and when we show up instead of looking away, we make courage possible. We show them that kindness is worth the risk.

Somewhere along the way, we started treating cruelty as currency. Laughing at someone else became a way of buying acceptance. Kindness, on the other hand, started to be optional. Belonging started to feel conditional. But exclusion doesn’t usually come from outright meanness. It comes from fear of standing apart. 

Even I became a “mean girl” at one point. I knew I wasn’t a mean kid. I knew what I was doing was wrong but it helped me stay included & respected. How incredibly scary is that? I am ultimately ashamed of that behavior now and respect all people no matter what. 

At home, I encourage my kids to be themselves fully. To show their true emotions. To feel deeply. I never want them to believe they have to change who they are or hide how they feel just to fit in. That might feel like the easy or safe way out in the moment, but it comes at a long-term cost to self-worth.

I want them to know they are enough as they are.

I am deeply grateful for the children who have shown genuine kindness to my son, not out of obligation, but because they chose inclusion. Their actions matter more than they will ever know. Kindness like that doesn’t just brighten a day; it reshapes a child’s understanding of the world and their place in it.  Kindness isn’t small.  It isn’t passive.  And it isn’t optional.

Sometimes, it’s the difference between a child learning to belong or learning to disappear.

As parents, we have a powerful choice. We can raise children who remember the pain of exclusion or children who become the reason someone else felt safe, seen, and welcome.

Let’s choose to model the kind of kindness that lasts.  Not just in February, but every day.