There should be an awards show exclusively for middle schoolers. Think the Oscars, but for Most Convincing Meltdown, Best Eye Roll, and Outstanding Performance in a Lunchroom Betrayal. If you survived middle school without earning at least one imaginary trophy, were you even there?

Growing up with overprotective parents only added to the drama. Not the quiet, “We’re just being cautious” kind of overprotective. I’m talking full-blown Hazmat suit-level paranoia. They could conjure up imaginary catastrophes as if itwere their side hustle. A sleepover? What if someone’s older brother had access to a blowtorch? A trip to the mall? What if the escalator malfunctioned and I got sucked in feet-first?

They called it “protecting me.” I called it house arrest with focaccia.

I remember standing in line for a theme park ride with my friends, sweating through my Venture prison striped t-shirt, thinking I was about to die. Not because the ride was that scary (although it 100% was), but because if something did go wrong, my parents would absolutely resurrect me just to kill me again for proving them right.

[For those too young, or too privileged to remember, Venture was an ’80s discount store that tried to be Target before Target was cool. They sold everything from bathing suits to bolt cutters, but no groceries. Imagine T.J.Maxx married Home Depot minus the lumber.] 

Middle school made everything feel life-or-death. One wrong move, one misunderstood note (because text messages weren’t invented yet), and suddenly you were persona non grata until further notice. Middle school memories come back like flashbacks from a soap opera: mascara tears (except I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up until high school), unspoken alliances, and the constant fear that someone, somewhere, was talking about your outfit. And if you were lucky, they would at least like your shoes.

But here’s the kicker: that wild cocktail of tween chaos and parenting extremes shaped me. The high-stakes emotional weather system that was sixth grade? It taught me how to read a room. How to fake bravery. How to bounce back after a social faceplant. And yes, how to laugh about it all twenty years later with a keyboard and a better haircut.

Looking back, I realize why middle school felt so dramatic: because it was. Everything was bigger in our minds. Every crush, every betrayal, every overly cautious rule. It wasn’t just a phase, it was our version of survival.

So here’s to the overprotective parents who feared doorknobs, the friends who ditched us at the log ride, and the younger selves who thought the world was ending just because someone sat next to someone else on the bus.

We were all stars of our own teen drama.

And honestly? The performances were iconic.