At school pickup today, my daughter was in tears. One of her usual recess friends had suddenly started ignoring her, choosing a new friend group instead. My mama heart ached as I listened to her confusion and hurt.
And honestly? I get it. Even at 31, I still find myself wondering how some people are in every group photo, invited to every gathering, and part of every event. I see them in spaces that overlap with mine—group gatherings with mutual friends—yet there always seems to be a divide between their circle and mine. It’s easy to wonder, Where’s my seat at the table? But here’s the thing I’ve realized: I’m not meant to be part of every group, and I’ve come to accept that. My worth isn’t determined by whether or not I’m included in these spaces. Sometimes, we’re just not meant to fit into every group, and that’s okay. You won’t always be included in every conversation or social circle—but that doesn’t diminish your worth.
And as I look back, I think maybe these feelings of being left out or unworthy of belonging to a specific circle of friends stemmed from an early age because I fought for my place at the table as a young girl, sharing friends with my artificial twin. We were a package deal, but I often felt like the add-on—the one invited out of obligation rather than genuine desire. The one who tagged along rather than someone others intentionally chose. It planted the idea that my belonging was conditional—tied to someone else rather than something I could claim for myself. And that feeling, that quiet questioning of things like Do they truly want to come to my birthday party? Do they really want to be my friends too? lingered long after childhood. It took me years to realize that I never had to fight for a place where I truly belonged. I don’t want my daughter to carry that same uncertainty, waiting for someone else to decide if she’s worthy of a seat at the table.
As my daughter sat in the backseat, trying to make sense of how she could be best friends with someone one day and forgotten the next, my mama heart ached for her. How do you explain the complexities of friendships at eight years old? The truth is, she’s dealing with the Mean Girls—Recess Royals edition—for the first time, and I wish I could tell her it gets easier. I wanted to look her in the eyes and say, Oh, sweet girl, don’t worry. This all goes away when you grow up! But I couldn’t. Because at 31, I know better. The truth is, the Recess Royals just become the Brunch Queens—the same exclusivity, just with fancier coffee.
Being a boy mom comes with its own challenges, but having a daughter has made me even more aware of how important it is to nurture her confidence. This isn’t about feeling better than other girls or rejecting the need for relationships; it’s about recognizing that our self-worth isn’t contingent on whether we have a spot at the table. When expectations aren’t met—when friendships fade, when we realize a former friend has unfollowed us (because let’s be honest, y’all, the whiplash of follow, unfollow, like, unlike is unreal), or when we see that one girl getting invited to everything—it doesn’t have to shatter our world or make us question our worth.
Because nowadays, people don’t just drift apart quietly—they make it obvious. They unfollow, block, unblock, re-follow, and leave group chats, all in the most calculated ways to send a message. It’s petty, passive-aggressive, yet it still stings somehow. And let’s be honest—it stings even more when it’s coming from the very people we thought were different. The mama friends from small group. The PTA moms. The mom from the gymnastics club. The women in church leadership who preach kindness and community yet still play the same exclusionary games. It’s disappointing but also a reminder: a leadership title or a faith-filled caption doesn’t mean someone has mastered the heart of friendship.
Unfortunately, we live in a time where comparison and feelings of unworthiness are compounded by social media. Back in middle school—and even elementary school—I didn’t have social media influencing my friendships. There wasn’t a ‘block’ button or a way to quietly exclude someone with the tap of a finger. Instead, exclusion happened in real time, right in front of you. It wasn’t a back-and-forth of let’s be friends on social media today and let’s not tomorrow—it was standing on the playground at recess, watching your friends run off without you, just like my daughter did today. It was the saved seats at lunch that didn’t have room for you, the whispered secrets you weren’t part of, and the gut-punch realization that you were suddenly on the outside looking in. And honestly? That kind of rejection stung in a way you couldn’t escape with the tap of a screen.
And confession—I’ve been watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, and it’s wild to see the whiplash of friendships.
Where exclusion, manipulation, and social hierarchy are all wrapped in a bless your heart kind of package. They gossip, they gatekeep, they uphold impossible standards, and they know exactly how to wield their power in ways that seem righteous but are actually just straight-up controlling. So yeah, they’re mean girls—just in mom jeans, sipping their iced lattes, and armed with an arsenal of passive-aggressive righteousness. One minute, they’re best friends; the next, they’re backstabbing, gossiping, and ousting each other. Then, suddenly, they’re back to being best friends again. These moms are constantly feeling unworthy, unloved, and like they don’t have a place in the group. What’s interesting is that despite how calculated some of their actions are, their intentions for the group were rooted in inclusivity. They openly talk about Jesus’s love and acceptance, yet their behavior tells a different story. It’s this disconnect—the desire to create a space where everyone belongs while simultaneously deciding who’s in and who’s out—that feels all too familiar. Because here’s the thing—it’s not just a reality TV trope. It happens in real life, in church circles and small groups, among women who preach belonging but quietly decide who does and doesn’t fit. And often, the very ones championing community—whether in leadership, PTA meetings, or mom groups—are the ones drawing the deepest dividing lines.
And today, as I watched my daughter wrestle with the sting of exclusion, I realized—this isn’t just a lesson for her. It’s for all of us. She’s feeling, at eight, what so many of us still feel as grown women. The quiet rejection. The confusion. The way it makes you question if you did something wrong, if you should have tried harder, if you should have been more—more fun, more likable, more whatever it takes to be invited in. But that’s not the lesson I want her to learn. I don’t want her growing up believing that love and belonging are things she has to earn. I don’t want her carrying the weight of someone else’s fickleness, mistaking it for a reflection of her worth. And I don’t want her to be thirty-one and just now realizing that some tables were never meant for her in the first place. Because I know where this kind of exclusion can lead. I know how it can make you question your worth in the deepest ways. And I never want my daughter to carry that same weight, to feel like she has to fight to belong, or to reach the kind of hopelessness that once made me give up on myself.
It doesn’t matter if it’s within a church, a school, a workplace, a moms’ group, a book club, or even a group chat—exclusion happens everywhere. And it starts in the household too. The way siblings are treated differently, the subtle favoritism, the unspoken rules about who belongs and who doesn’t—these lessons don’t begin on the playground. They start at home. So how can we be better? How can we model the kind of confidence, kindness, and self-worth that allows us—and our daughters—to rise above the cliques, the comparisons, and the unspoken competitions? Because I don’t want my daughter spending years questioning her worth based on who lets her in and who shuts her out. I don’t want her to learn, like I did, that belonging is something you have to earn or fight for. I want her to know—right now, at eight years old—that she is already enough.
Because not every table is meant for us, and that’s okay. But God’s best is never found in a place where we have to beg to belong. He has never called us to strive for acceptance from people who make us feel small. Seek friendships that uplift, not diminish—ones that make room for you, not ones that require you to shrink. Because sometimes, the problem isn’t you; it’s the table. And when you realize that, you gain the freedom to walk away, trusting that God has already prepared a place for you—a space where you are fully seen, fully known, and fully loved, just as He intended.
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