There is one thing that unites the entire human race. One thing that has the ability to bring us together despite all of our differences. One thing that can, if we let it, allow us to look beyond any past wrongdoings and join together as one. No, it is not love, nor is it the knowledge that we are all essentially tiny specks of dust on a chunk of rock hurtling through the infinite black that is space. No. What has the potential to bring us together is the awkward stage.

You read that right. Perhaps the most important thing I have learned in my twenty years of life is that every single person on this planet has had an awkward stage.

Now, some may disagree. A few years ago, I would have too, for my sister Lizzie passed through middle school with the grace of a young French princess, and from an outsider perspective the most awkward she ever got was a few peace sign selfies on Instagram. However, Lizzie would fight me on this and say that she was indeed very awkward.

You see, that’s the beautiful thing about the awkward stage. Everyone has one. This is one of those irrevocable truths of the world, along with the fact that pizza is delicious and the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

I would like to argue that I had one of the worst awkward stages that ever existed upon this globe that we call Earth. First, let me provide you with a visual aid:

Now I hark back to the days of middle school. I had all the normal trappings of an awkward adolescent: gangly legs, a pimply forehead, brace-strapped teeth, a muted body odor.

Imagine, now, an infomercial: But wait, there’s more! I wore a bulky plastic back brace. Because it was so huge, I had to wear men’s shirts over it; my favorite was a brown one with a mess of hot pink coral and a clown fish on the front. I also didn't wear jeans because they were hard to put on underneath the brace, so I arrived at school in stretch pants. I would regularly try to get people to poke or hit my stomach so they’d hurt themselves.

The brace, which I plastered with Wizards of Waverly Place stickers and hand-drawn peace signs, also obliterated any center of balance I may have previously possessed. Any time I bent over to pick something up, there was a 50 percent chance I would just completely topple over. Then there’s that one excellent time I fell off the side of my porch, landed in a mud puddle, and waited for approximately five minutes like a turtle stuck on its shell until I realized no one was going to come to my rescue.

Let me tell you, these were trying times. I can laugh about it now, but six, seven years ago, when I was caught in the middle of it, it was terrible, and I think I can safely say that it was the same for everyone else. So you, dear reader, may be confused as to why I have titled this piece “An Ode To The Awkward Stage” when it seems that all I feel for it is shame, angst, and perhaps hatred.

But even though the awkward stage does not necessarily make middle school easy for any of us, I think it does help in the long run. Only by suffering through years of too-long limbs and cringe-worthy fashion choices can we truly appreciate the blessing that is young adulthood. The awkward stage is a rite of passage.

No matter how high we may climb on the ladder of success, we all come from the same humble beginnings: the pain and anguish that is the awkward stage. I mean, have you seen that iconic picture of Zac Efron with shaggy hair and a puka shell necklace? Of Angelina Jolie grimacing with a bouquet of flowers? Or of Drake in his school picture, drowning in a massive denim jacket? Even these cultural icons once cringed in front of a camera, and may God bless them for it.

The awkward stage, then, is a true equalizer. There is nothing quite like it, which drags us to our lowest point while still providing us with ample comedic material in case we may choose to one day pursue stand-up comedy, or run out of witty quips about the weather at a social event. (Believe me, my I-fell-off-the-porch-and-landed-in-a-mud-puddle story kills.)

So I challenge you, dear reader, to never delete those middle school photos off Facebook. Do not be afraid to flaunt those Picnik-edited images on your walls like the gems that they are. Tell that cute boy at the party about how you dropped a plate of nachos in the cafeteria in sixth grade and the cafeteria lady made you clean them up by yourself (not that that has happened to me). And if you see a frightened, squirrelish middle schooler in ill-fitting clothes with braces flashing from their mouth, tell him, dear reader, that all of this suffering is worth it. It will, I promise, get better.