I've been ambitious my whole life. In preschool, I had to read the most books in the fake tree house. In grade school, I aimed for and achieved all the gold stars and "Fantastic!" stickers. I wanted all my teachers to love me, and all of them loved me. I wanted to be the best I could be in dance class and have all the moves down perfectly, and I was in the front row as much as possible.

I wanted all these things for myself at a young age because they made me feel good. They made me feel proud of myself. I honestly think the only thing I wasn't ambitious about was the community soccer team I was on, as I usually paid attention to flowers or what the after-game snack would be rather than the offensive team running towards me with the ball at full force.

I didn't enter any activity at a truly competitive level until the sixth grade, when three dance classes a week at my studio turned into being a member on the competition team. This was the first time where a trophy or a placing was the ultimate goal. It was also the first time where I was competing with–but also against–my female friends. We all danced together, but everyone had a solo, and there was always someone who did the best out of all of us one weekend, and always someone who did the worst. We cheered each other on, but my desire to do the best I could turned into a desire to be better than them.

This relatively mild situation was halted after middle school, when I moved from that dance studio to my community theater's dance troupe, where simple artistic expression was the point of dancing, rather than winning. However, during this time I had become fully immersed in the forensics department at my high school. When I joined as a timid freshman because my older brother was in it, I had no idea how much the activity would consume me.

In case you think that by "forensics" I'm talking about the study of corpses, I mean competitive speech and drama, which is its own entire culture that exists on both the high school and college level. It combined both my love of performing and my natural ambition, so I easily fell in love. After enough experience at in-state and national circuit tournaments, I began having real success in my particular events after sophomore year. I started winning state tournaments, placing at championships, and even ended my career placing 3rd in Prose at the 2013 National Forensics League Tournament in Birmingham, Alabama (completely unnecessary tidbit, but I'm a narcissist, sue me). If you go back to my high school, there's an entire corner in the trophy case filled with all the silver and gold I accumulated.

Pretty dope, right?

Except the competitive environment I was in started becoming less healthy and more hostile with every weeknight work session and Saturday tournament. I was told–in the most under-the-table manner possible–that the others who were on my team were the real ones to worry about. This became especially true for a girl in my grade. She competed in the same events I did. She was also blonde, tan, a size 2, and much more socially adaptable than a 14 through 17-year old Suzy could ever hope to be. Every time she succeeded, it meant I failed. Every time I succeeded, I could tell she maybe felt the same way. We practiced, ate, laughed, and partied together–but when it came to tournaments together, we were positioned at a silent war. The war eventually seeped out from the tournament days to average ones, where I would feel a tiny stab in my chest every time a boy paid more attention to her or if her joke landed more than mine did, and those minuscule pains stayed in me as I obsessed about them over and over again.

It took me a long time after our high school graduation to realize that the situation I was in was not normal. I had gotten so used to feeling slighted and unworthy every time I stepped into the forensics building that it became second nature, and it wasn't until college when I started being exposed to the subject of competition–competition within female relationships in particular–that I realized how much the accumulation of those four years harmed me. When I was living in that environment, I always assumed that this life-or-death tension I felt in my body was all self-inflicted; I was simply over-ambitious in nature, and the nerves and nausea I would feel on a day-to-day basis was my fault, and my fault only.

The reason I let my naturally obsessive, type A personality escalate to such a high level during that time wasn't me alone, but was what I wasn't taught earlier on.

I was never taught that not being the best one day wouldn't mean I won't be the best another day.

I was never taught that competing in a sport or event with a girl doesn't mean that I also have to compete with her on other things, like hair, weight, clothes, money, and who can be the funniest cool girl in the room.

I was never taught that my worth and talents are much more than being a funny cool girl or winning trophies. That I can work hard and still take care of myself at the same time.

I was never truly, purposefully taught that it is okay to say no, and admitting that something has become "too much" or "too stressful" is not selfish, not weak, and not a sign of not being good enough, and that being successful and winning is not equivalent to having permission to look down on everyone else.

This epidemic of misinforming has affected many more girls who are just like me and the farthest thing from me. Many have suffered less than I did, or about the same...and many have suffered much, much more.

It is imperative that the conversation on competition happens as soon as girls enter that environment: dance classes, math teams, swim lessons. These environments are breeding grounds for either extreme nurture or extreme destruction; the latter building up to being a constant Survival of the Fittest in everyday life, where a fight for a trophy turns into a fight for who can weigh the less or attract the most men. It's a dangerous battlefield to be in.

When I look at who I am now, I see an ambitious, strong woman who does her best. She doesn't see life as a competition anymore, and she doesn't feel the need to compare herself to or put down other women as a tactic to climb towards the "top". She still has her bad days–we all do. She is getting better–but only because of the education she sought for herself.

Let's help girls be for other girls, whether they be our family, friends, peers, coworkers, or competitors...because that "perfect" girl you're competing with is going through just as much pain and joy as you are, and she needs just as much support. Instead of defeating her, empower her. Win with her. Win for each other.