“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” ~Unknown
“Girls are mean!” I nodded knowingly as my boss struggled to explain the difference between raising boys and girls. I couldn’t speak to raising boys, but I remembered all too well what it was like when my daughters were growing up.
Girls traveled in packs, always with a leader at the helm. And almost every week, one of the lesser-ranked members was cast out, ostracized from the group. More often than not, it was one of my daughters. I distinctly recall their heartbreak—the kind of deep, inconsolable sorrow that …
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” ~Unknown
“Girls are mean!” I nodded knowingly as my boss struggled to explain the difference between raising boys and girls. I couldn’t speak to raising boys, but I remembered all too well what it was like when my daughters were growing up.
Girls traveled in packs, always with a leader at the helm. And almost every week, one of the lesser-ranked members was cast out, ostracized from the group. More often than not, it was one of my daughters. I distinctly recall their heartbreak—the kind of deep, inconsolable sorrow that only a child can feel when their world is upended.
Then, just as suddenly as they had been exiled, the social winds would shift. They’d be welcomed back into the fold, all smiles and laughter, as if the agony of rejection had never happened. And just like that, it was another poor girl’s turn to bear the brunt of exclusion. My daughters, now safely back in favor, never hesitated to play along, inflicting the same pain they had so recently endured—all in an effort to stay in the leader’s good graces.
It’s easy to think of this as just ‘girl drama,’ but is it really? I found myself wondering: is meanness learned, or is it wired into us? And oddly enough, my horse helped me answer that question.
From Outcast to Enforcer
A few years ago, I moved her to a new home, where she had to integrate into an unfamiliar herd. The top mare wasted no time making it clear—she didn’t like my mare. For two weeks, every time I arrived, I’d find her standing alone on the outskirts, gazing longingly at the hay she wasn’t allowed near. And every time, she would run to me, silently pleading for help.
It reminded me so much of my daughters. It broke my heart.
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