When I was 10 years old I faked amnesia.

Fifth grade at Sam Houston Intermediate School was rough. I’ll never forget the school nurse yelling, “Melissa Correa. 118 pounds,” as another nurse jotted down my height and weight in front of my classmates. Brutal.

My body began changing that year. I shot up above 5 feet.

I prayed and prayed and prayed for things to stay the same. I fought wearing a training bra and deodorant. I tried to squeeze into the child sizes at our local department store.

Breaking news, my friends: life carries on.

The boys in my class would reach into my backpack and pull out the feminine pads I embarrassingly tucked away in the front pocket. My teacher never seemed to catch the Kotex in their clutches. The pads would then reappear *on my backpack—a humiliating sticky badge worn—unbeknownst to me—as I navigated everything from my first crush to my first crushing blow of not being accepted. The brutality of not fitting in as a pre-teen lives on—despite a decade of therapy and, you know, growing up.

We’re all reliving our childhoods to a point, right?

I’m still not quite sure what the trigger was, but at 10, my delicate heart had had enough.

Maybe it was the prank calls to my house initiated by a sixth grade girl who called all the shots until she eventually graduated high school in 2001.

Maybe it was one too many comments from the cool kid clique about my changing body.

Maybe it was this: I’ve got a booming voice, boundless energy and a million ideas. My big personality tends to be too much for people. I’ve learned almost everyone likes me more when I play small.

Whatever the trigger, I know the crux in 1995 was: I am not good enough. Something MUST be wrong with ME to deserve a callous and targeted icing out. I’m pretty sure I thought it before Taylor sang it, “I’m the problem. It’s me.”

At 10, I didn’t have perspective or the language to describe what was happening and what I was feeling and I definitely didn’t feel like I had an ally at school. So I leaned on the dramatic lessons I learned from watching All My Children and Days of Our Lives during summer breaks.

One day during P.E., shortly after Coach Martinez blew the whistle and ordered our class to run laps… I did it. I made my escape—my soap opera-style exit.

I vividly remember rounding the corner of the playground. I forced myself to the ground, trying my best to make it look like I “fell.” And then, I just laid there. On my stomach, my face buried in the South Texas dirt, playing dead, begging God for a do-over.

The coach eventually made her way over to me as I committed to showing signs of amnesia. I’d like to think Erica Kane would be impressed.

My parents picked me up from school. I sensed their annoyance with the unexpected pause in their work day. Still, my performance continued. “You have to see this through to a medical miracle,” I thought. I stood by, ready for my life to rewind and start all over, allowing me to avoid whatever social missteps that led to my literal downfall.

Life doesn’t work that way.

Eventually, my parents learned about the personal attacks launched by my classmates. I moved to a different campus for 6th grade before things settled, allowing me to blossom into the gregarious and charismatic woman I am today.

My therapist thinks 10-year old Melissa was smart. Little Melissa needed to protect herself. She figured out a way to get away from the pain, while hoping she’d also get to start over.

Life carries us on… and sometimes… it carries us right back.

Thirty years later, I wish I could fake amnesia again. Again, I am the odd one out, this time in a professional setting. And y’all, it stings. Not being invited to lunch with the group takes me back to Sam Houston.

Criticisms about my jokes being flat, my ideas being weird, or me being too caffeinated feel like sucker punches to that carefully packed collection of childhood insecurities.

For weeks, I leaned on my Xanax prescription that I hadn’t used since 2022, when I would have panic attacks while working as a local news reporter. I tried not caring, but alas, I’m human and I care. So I asked God for help.

During our conversation at work one day, I told God that I can’t get through this without His help. I need His help to keep going. Life is too hard to go it alone.

By His mercy and with His love, I get up every morning and dress myself for personal success, with caffeine in hand.

I’ve secluded myself in my cubicle where I work quietly with Apple Air Pods plugged in my ears to drown out the camaraderie that is happening around me and without me. Ouch.

Childhood never leaves us.

But at 41, I can’t fake amnesia, no matter how much I commit to the role. Life simply doesn’t reset from the beginning, however we do get to try again and again and again.

So, if you find yourself on the proverbial playground with 5th grade Melissa—first of all, I would totally be your friend—secondly, here’s what I hope you consider: playing small and being inauthentically yourself only lasts for so long. You’re welcome to try it as a coping strategy but understand that it’s not a long-term solution.

God made us all uniquely special with our own zesty secret sauce that, when mixed with just the right people, crafts a life that is sweet and bold, layered and aromatic.

So, while I quietly listen to my favorite jams at work and tackle my professional responsibilities, I also share texts and giggles with friends and family. I’m reading interesting articles during my lunch break. I’m taking walks in our parking lot, to stretch my legs and my spirit. I’m finding joy by myself, within myself.

After years of therapy, my mantra has become:

“I love you just the way you are. All your feelings and emotions are safe with me. I’m not trying to change you or teach you; I’m just here, loving you exactly the way you are.”

Belonging and acceptance are crucial—at work, at home, around the dinner table and in group texts. I believe we need both to feel safe enough to show up fully as ourselves. If people cant deliver both, they don’t deserve the secret sauce.

So here’s what I’ve considered and decided:

I won’t fake amnesia.

I won’t play dead.

And I won’t play small.

Not anymore.

Instead of shutting down and collapsing, I live present in the feelings and emotions. Being excluded at work sucks.

But a moment or two does not a life make.

Life, my friends, carries on.

Listen to the blog: