I was sitting with my 13-year-old brother eating dinner and I absent-mindedly reprimanded him to chew with his mouth closed, or else no one would want to sit with him at lunch at school. His retort sent a sympathetic ache deep into my bones: “No one sits with me at lunch anyway. I don’t have any friends at school.”

My heart broke for him, my little brother who has a heart of gold and a wit far beyond his years. How could anyone not see him as beautiful and perfect as I did? What pre-teen jerks had the ability to make him feel like dirt and treat him like this? I felt indignant and disgusted, incredulous that anyone was of that caliber of atrocity at such a young age. But then I found myself reminiscing on my own seventh-grade experience, and I remembered that yes, oh yes, 13-year-olds are capable of more treachery and manipulation than anyone could care to remember.

On my first day of seventh grade, my “best friends” decided the course of our friendship had come to a startling halt: at lunch, they up and left the table I was sitting at and let their fearless leader tell me that they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. I sat there sobbing as they looked on and laughed, reveling in the power trip that accompanied their malice. But this was not the last of their ridicule. No, they extended a gracious olive branch by inviting me to their Halloween party where, upon my arrival, they presented to me a pumpkin into which they had carved the words “Hope sucks.” In retrospect, I must commend them for their handiwork, as I can’t imagine that was an easy feat, and their eloquence in their attempt to tear me down even further with just two simple words.

The abuse didn’t stop there. No, they invited me to birthday parties where they would blatantly leave their phones open to show the nasty texts they’d exchanged about me, they spread rumors around school about boys I liked, and they spent their afternoons creating Facebook blasts about how it was “National Hate Hope Day.” Now I’m not sitting here, telling you all this as some sort of cry for attention. Clearly I survived and lived to tell the tale, and the majority of these girls grew up to be fine individuals.

To be honest, I’m not even sure how I survived. I barely even told my mother the details of their brutality and, even today, she is shocked when I rehash my tales of seventh grade. But I guess deep down, maybe by looking up to my older siblings or perhaps the grace of some supreme being, I knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel and I would come out of it with a thicker skin and, ultimately, more confident. I have grown up to be relatively successful, sufficiently attractive (to my some standards, I suppose), and I sustained no lasting emotional repercussions as a result of those girls’ cruelty. But if, knowing what I know today, I could go back and offer some advice to that chubby, miserable preteen, I’d offer her these seven points:

Seventh grade should not be your peak.

In seventh grade, I wore a bubblegum pink polo layered over two camisoles, on top of flared jeans with knock-off boat shoes on a regular basis. I don’t even think I washed it that often. I was also overweight and didn’t understand that one spritz of perfume will suffice. You should not look your best in seventh grade. You have miles and miles of physical change ahead of you, where you’ll find yourself stretched out like taffy and most of your puppy fat will relocate to places where it makes sense (let me repeat myself: most, not all). So do not fret if you aren’t exactly beautiful in seventh grade; even Beyoncé had an awkward stage.

College is the only real measure of your academic abilities.

In middle school, everyone is grouped into the same mid-level classes and grades feel completely arbitrary. There really isn’t any point in comparing yourself to your classmates, as in the coming years it will become apparent what your real intellectual gifts are. I promise you they are not seventh grade pre-calculusor eighth grade earth sciences. And if they are, well, all right. That’s fine. But when you get to college and start taking classes that actually appeal to you, you’ll find yourself actually listening in class and doing worthwhile work.

Boys are clueless, self-absorbed beings with no romantic agenda.

It’s a well-known scientific fact that boys, physically, emotionally, and mentally, develop at a rate far slower than that of girls. So really, this point applies to all of life. Boys are clueless. Unless you spell it out for them word by word, they don’t often grasp the concept of “feelings.” That’s the thing about the male species; they really rely on us girls to make life as easy as possible for them (this is a trend that will continue through the years, so heed caution). But in the coming years, they will learn that deodorant is a necessity, peach fuzz turns into patchy, yet somewhat sexy, beards, and that a good haircut will take you miles. You don’t often hear of people marrying their middle school sweethearts, do you? There’s a reason for that.

Health class is wrong.

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage, right? Wrong. I know of three girls in my graduating high school class who had babies on their right hips as they crossed that stage in their cap and gown. I can tell you with certainty that your first kiss will not be fireworks and true love, and that the first time you sleep with anyone ever will not go smoothly. What your health teachers fail to mention is the tense lead up to the actual big bang and then the awkward maneuvering of parts as you both attempt to figure out where the hell everything goes. And they never seem to mention the emotional component in health class—that when you sleep with someone, they take a part of you with them. So be careful and don’t throw yourself at every guy you see, nor should you lose hope. I promise there’s a good one out there who will eventually love your for your terrible dancing skills, your Shakira impression, and your intolerable sarcasm.

Your body will change, and so should your diet.

Remember in seventh grade when a “healthy salad” consisted of two pieces of lettuce covered by a mountain of croutons and smothered in ranch dressing? Yeah, you can’t eat like that unless you want to wake up feeling worse than you would if you singlehandedly crushed a thirty-rack. Gluten is murder to your skin and waistline, and dairy is the arch nemesis of your digestive track. Pizza is really not a viable lunch option when you’re in your twenties, so prepare yourself to buckle down and learn to like things like quinoa and kale, because with enough olive oil and salt, anything can be palatable.

It never ends.

I’m a twenty-year-old sophomore in college who is still holding out on the whole “losing your puppy fat” thing and who still doesn’t know how to apply eyeliner. But I have grown up and far removed myself from the world of the thirteen-year-old girl who tolerated that sort of cruelty. Unfortunately, I’m stuck maintaining the same optimism and perseverance that seventh-grade me had to because the reality is middle school never ends. The pretty, popular girls are still pretty and popular, but now they do things like kick you out of parties and spread rumors about whom you hooked up with last weekend. Boys are still jerks and won’t bat an eyelash at ignoring your text or dumping you for another girl. At the end of the day, no matter how many years go by, everyone still has their insecurities and works them out how they please, whether its by making others feel small or by lifting others up. But as Plato once said, “Be kind, everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.”

But you will get stronger, older, and wiser.

If you had asked me at 13-years-old where I would be when I was 20, I would have told you my dream of attending the University of Michigan and being a marine biologist. Well, I can tell you with certainty that this funny little thing called “life” will come along and uproot your plans and lead you on the most beautiful journey. I have lived in four states, two countries, and I’m now studying English at Santa Clara University in the hopes of becoming a writer. I, who used to break down sobbing anytime I had an essay, now actually enjoy writing and hope to someday make a career of it. Seventh grade is a blip in the grand scheme of things. You will come out of middle school with some scars, probably as a result of shaving your legs for the first time, but for the most part, you will escape with a new-found appreciation for yourself that can only come as the byproduct of being socially isolated for three years. But truly, it gets better, because you will realize that your happiness and success is entirely up to you—not those seventh-grade queen bees.