I, like many young women in my generation, had a “not like other girls” phase. As a kid, I was an exuberant blonde with curls that would make Shirley Temple jealous; I practically lived in a fluffy pink a-line dress, and I adored a lot of male-dominated, male-produced media like Minecraft Youtube and Comic books where female fans were few and were often forced to prove they were “real” fans. After years of internalizing other people’s doubts about my own identity, I had given up all visual markers of my younger self; my hair was dark, I only wore t-shirts and athletic shorts, and I thought poorly of anyone who presented more femininely. 

Although I was not aware of it, the reason for this shift in sensibility was the prevalence of presenting women in the TV shows I watched as one of three misogynistic archetypes: unintelligent and vapid, yet popular villains; intelligent, but uninteresting love interests; or unimportant (probably queer-coded) comic relief side characters.  None of these characters were ever simultaneously feminine and intelligent or nerdy, and none of them were ever respected for anything more than their relationship to a man (I realize now my issue with this stemmed from my unrealized asexuality). So I spent my adolescence trying to prove to no one in particular that I was different from all the other girls, and was therefore deserving of respect. 

The first inkling of my own toxicity came to me when I attended a meeting of all my female classmates from my new high school. As the only former homeschooler, and as someone who based their personality on being different, I feared I wouldn’t be able to bond with the girls in attendance. To my surprise, after asking a group of them “Hey do you like Star Wars?”, I fit right in. Although I remained convinced that I was still very much different, I was able to accept that the “other girls” appreciated my introverted insightfulness and that I, in turn, appreciated their extroverted exuberance.

My journey away from internalized misogyny proceeded more rapidly after I was finally in regular contact with real (not 2D) girls my age. I met all kinds of girls from short Star Wars nerds turned lesbian stereotypes, to geniuses with cool boots and nonfunctional sleep schedules, to bookworms with quirky styles who turned out not to be girls. All of them were intelligent and capable individuals (sometimes more so than myself) and none of them were my friends for the reasons I would have imagined (i.e. anything other than a unique companion or a pupil for me to tutor).

They made me realize that not only am I “like other girls,” but my persistent feelings of both inadequacy and superiority that led to my isolation were due to my obsession with escaping negative female stereotypes because I was convinced they weren’t valid identities. Being like other girls isn’t bad, and in fact, it is a much less stressful and more fulfilling existence. No longer do I feel like I must conform to certain expectations that dictate I must dress like I don’t care so as to not attract attention, study ‘useful’ STEM topics, and not waste time on things that don’t matter.

These days, I am happier, and most of my new joy stems from studying formerly ‘useless’ topics like dress history, gender, education, and languages I will never have a chance to use (see my 644 day Duolingo streak). Although I’m still working on exorcising the residual internalized misogyny from my mind --like how when I saw my last ACT score, my first thought was that I could finally join the high-scoring boys club-- I’m still happy with the progress I have made.