The Roller Coaster of a Little Girl's Self-Esteem

February 16, 2026

Kristen Crisp, Author

Sandy Rivers, Subject Matter Expert

At 55, this picture still makes me tear up and cringe.

I wish I could go back in time and hug this gangly 5'6", buck-toothed, struggling eleven-year-old girl and tell her, "Kristen, I promise you, life will get better."

In elementary school, I had tons of friends, excellent grades, enjoyed school, was active in Girl Scouts, had a nice-sized, loving family, complete with a large extended family, and a good life in small-town Connecticut.

I played outside, rode my bike, went ice skating and sledding, swam in the Atlantic Ocean, jumped in huge piles of leaves, took weekly outings to the public library with my dad, did lots of arts and crafts, and had a generally happy childhood.

Then the Bomb Dropped:

My parents came into my room one day and did the dreaded "We want to talk to you" speech—such serious words for such a young girl.

They told me my dad had gotten a new job and that we would be moving. To Texas.

Texas

Initially, I was excited, but then my questions started to flow:

"When are we moving?" (January 1980, approximately six months later).

"What will it be like there?" (We'll find out when we get there.)

And the big one, "What about Robin?" Robin will stay here with Patty. Robin was my big sister, and Patty was her girlfriend. Yes, that kind of girlfriend. 

"But it's so far away!" I exclaimed. My world changed. I was moving a thousand miles away, not only from my sister, who was my best friend, mentor, and protector, but also from my entire extended family, friends, neighbors, school, scouts, and everything else I'd ever known and loved.

That's a lot to take in for a 6th grader. Now, I'm not going to blame all my problems on the family's move to Texas, but it did change my life drastically.

Moving cross-country became the most significant challenge of my young life. Moving cross-country as a pre-pubescent teen was horrid. I was shifting from a cute little kid into an absurdly tall, weirdo with wild curly hair, glasses, and huge teeth. A ton of baby teeth came out late, which made my two front teeth look enormous. I was also one eye surgery away from correcting a severe head turn I had from being born with pediatric strabismus, colloquially known as being crossed-eyed. Gawky is putting it mildly.

Bullies, All Shapes & Sizes 

To add insult to injury, the Connecticut Yankees were heading deep in the heart of Texas, which wasn't always very welcoming.

Upon starting 6th grade in my new state, I was immediately bullied. Some kid would lean over towards me, making noises and comments like, "Duhhh, hey doofy." This was shocking as I'd never been made fun of before.

It was horrible. But not as horrific as coming home from school, hopping on my bike, riding down the street, and seeing him. The bully. Standing in a front yard, half a dozen houses down from ours. He called me over and asked me what I was doing there. I told him I lived down the street. He just smirked and said, "I live here."

Dear God. Luckily, he backed off shortly after that, and I never had another class with him during my entire school career.

In middle school, I was bullied brutally in 7th and 9th grade. For some reason, I had a reprieve during the year in between. Lucky me.

The 9th-grade bullies were the 4th-period Spanish class mean girls. They made fun of everything. My hair, my clothes, the way I talked, you name it. My mom worked in fashion retail, so I always had nice clothes, but it didn't matter. If I tried to dress similar to them, they'd clock it and use it against me.

They even made fun of my peripheral vision. Because of my eye issues and surgeries, I could give a pretty epic side eye. That was another strike against me.

That same year, my bottom jaw started growing at a crazy rate, and I unexpectedly developed a massive underbite. Now, braces were added to the package.

The ugly just got uglier.

Then they gave me a nickname.

While it isn't a secret, I choose to leave it in Mrs. Snow's 4th-period Spanish class. If it leaks, so be it. I'm a big girl now, but I like to treat it like a don't-ask, don't-tell scenario.

Every first day of school from that year forward was filled with massive anxiety. I would step into each class skeptically, looking for mean girls. I had two of them in different courses during high school, but neither said a bad word to me again. Praise the Lord.

Unfortunately, the damage was done.

I went from an extroverted, outgoing child to an introverted, shy, anxious teen, except around the closest of friends. In groups, I didn't mingle, and I was terrified around anyone who looked like a mean girl.

Drinker Journey

Until I started drinking at age thirteen, I didn't immediately become a "drinker." I accepted an occasional beer when offered because I didn't want to be a nerd. If the group was drinking, that meant they were cool kids, and I was desperate to be accepted by them.

Drinking brought me acceptance, notoriety, and eventually, courage. My sense of humor came out, and so did "Kristen the performer." I would stand at the front of the crowd, acting out scenes, telling animated stories, and making people laugh. As I got older, it was suggested I try stand-up comedy. I never did, and sometimes I regret not trying.

Liquid courage became one of my best friends. I could say what I wanted, be who I wanted, and act how I wanted when I was drinking. I was accepted and got attention. Lots of attention. As I got older, it leaned towards the wrong kind of attention.

In 11th grade, the rest of my body finally caught up with the giant teeth. Boys had finally passed me in height, I had corrective jaw surgery, got contacts, got boobs, and started to blend in with the rest of my peers quietly. I became somewhat invisible, and I was okay with it.

On the first day of school after having surgery and getting contacts, I walked into six different classes, and people I'd known for years didn't recognize me. It was strange, yet freeing. Each teacher would call my name for the first time, "Kristen Neill?" "Here," I'd boldly reply.

Countless heads turned and stared at the once gawky girl who was no more.

"Oh my God, I didn't recognize you!" I heard no less than twenty or thirty times that day,

"You look so different. What did you do? You look good."

Which my shit self-esteem took as, "Girl, you look good now, but wow, you were a walking nightmare before. Nice job!"

To be clear, I am not boasting. I was not gorgeous, or a stunner, or a brick shit house. None of those. But all of the characteristics that were against me, the ones I couldn't control, were finally gone.

Or so I thought.

Mental and Emotional Addiction

Changing your appearance is easy. Those scars fade. But changing your mental and emotional state is hard. Those scars are for life.

The cut of a scalpel, the snip of the brackets, the removal of glasses, the trim of your hair, or the change of a wardrobe, put temporary patches on the hurts. But as the years go by, it doesn't take much to bring your mind's muscle memory back to that first day of school in 6th grade, or to Mrs. Snow's 4th-period Spanish class to remind you of the hurt.

It may not be as intentional as a group of mean girls taunting you, but one word, one situation, one sound, one comment, one tone of voice, and you're emotionally right back where you were at your most vulnerable.

And that's where alcohol soothed so many hurts.

Everyone thinks you have this happy-go-lucky life because you spend your summers playing at Six Flags. However, you're secretly dreading the next nine months in the classroom and struggling through the occasional beers with your bad-girl friends to try to redeem yourself, even though you secretly hate the taste of alcohol.

Regardless, through multiple years of parties in mall parking lots, city parks, frat houses, homes of random students, or the house with the "cool mom," I finally graduated from high school.

The once-straight-A, gifted student who started reading at age two and was considered a prodigy graduated in the bottom three-fourths of her class — a prodigy no more. My good grades and basic comprehension of most subjects had plummeted along with my self-esteem.

Drinking allowed the positive feedback to come in night after night, weekend after weekend, party after party, and became a mental and emotional addiction. It healed all of the hurts. It was a liquid band-aid on a decade of adolescent trauma.

This, my friends, is an addiction.

As I left for college, my self-esteem improved. I was going somewhere unsupervised with several of my best friends, and I looked different, better. But I was so geared up for partying over studying that I ventured into the wrong crowd and was taken down the rabbit hole even deeper. 

I struggled for decades to quit drinking. However, the peer pressure, social expectations, and low self-esteem had a greater impact on me than I could handle. I was a lucky one. I had moderate-level AUD (Alcohol use disorder) and never reached the point of needing rehab, but it still took a toll on me. As I grew older, it got harder. My body couldn't physically handle it, and the peer pressure lingered. But instead of kids in middle school, it was adults in a midlife crisis.

When I finally said, "Enough," I meant it. This was the start of "Not Even Wine With Dinner," aka NEWWD (significant anagram, isn't it?). A comment I heard repeatedly started to change the course of my life. I quit drinking for six years, but slowly fell off the dreaded wagon. Never drinking habitually again, but just enough "special occasions" to realize that when I started with the intention of "just one", one turned into two and two turned into a sh** show.

I was hooked again. Dammit.

A few years later, my big sister unexpectedly died of cirrhosis, and that was the proverbial final straw. I had to do something to make sure she didn't die in vain. She might have passed quietly, but I was going to go out kicking and screaming to try to help someone else not go through the pain our family did.

As I write, I'm in my mid-50s. To some, that's old, to others, young. Regardless, I'm still the same little girl in the picture with the big teeth. I still have self-esteem issues, ugly days, and those post-surgery moments where I feel pretty again.

I've had moments, years, even decades, where I've felt like a strong, gorgeous, intelligent, successful, badass woman. But I've also had traumas, losses, and downfalls that take me back to the school locker.

This is normal, and real life, and this is where addiction will hit you. In your emotions. In your hurts.

Self-Esteem Journey

Wherever you are in your self-esteem journey, I encourage you to consider that drinking, drugs, or any other kind of addictive habit is not the answer. It doesn't solve the problems, it doesn't take away the hurts. It tends to make things much, much worse in the long term.

The only way to deal with the pain and the hurts is to face them head-on, be it through therapy, addiction treatment, AA, DAA, or whatever your choice of help may be.

Find a hobby, a positive one. Find a support group, also a positive one. Not a wine woman crew or beer buddies, but a group of people who want to help you celebrate who you are, as you are, with all of your bits, pieces, and flaws. The true you.

No matter how low you and your self-esteem can go, the natural highs are much more rewarding than the artificial ones. Let your true friends and family help you keep that little wild-haired, overly tall, big-toothed, gangly girl inside you, tucked neatly away in the past where she belongs.

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Kristen Crisp resides in Guatemala with her husband and a menagerie of cats. Their mission, www.feedingfaith.org, helps impoverished and malnourished families in eastern Guatemala.

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