When I was in middle school, my classmates would categorize their peers based on notable personality traits through a four-category system: Athletic, Smart, Funny, or Attractive. If someone embodied three out of four of these characteristics, they were considered pretty high-brand.

As I got older, both the categories and categorization process expanded in detail and meaning. In some ways, it was less of a shallow system in high school. For example, your hobbies, achievements, and failures were taken into greater consideration. However, the rest was based entirely on looks, the ability to succeed without seeming actively ambitious, social connections, and charisma. In addition, the labels were less explicit and concrete, which basically just made them impossible to pinpoint and refute. The most simple way of putting it is that these elements of "identity" determined someone's cool factor, not that anyone would ever say that aloud and risk sounding as lame as that phrase truly, truly is.

Why does this matter? It matters because being "cool" comes with the privilege of inclusion. Cool gets you invited to a party or hangout, company during free periods, instant lab partners or study groups, and constant open-ended plans to join in on or refute at the end of a long school day. Cool keeps you from feeling alone when teen angst is at its highest point.

In high school, I was lucky enough to have people in my life that I considered friends. I frequently had plans on the weekends, rarely got excluded from parties, and was pretty up to date on the latest gossip. These "perks" weren't necessarily a result of my winning personality - I also happened to very close friends with a couple of girls who had won over the hearts and hormones of many of the guys from our grade and the class above us. By the time I reached the summer of my junior year, I was that girl - the one with the cliche group of friends that did everything together and invited only a select few to join in the fun.

Every so often, I would overhear someone complaining about not getting an invite or not feeling including. Once in a while, I was even confronted by those who felt excluded and was accused of profiting from an elitist process. What I wasn't able to articulate back then was that being a part of the inner circle really isn't the golden ticket it may have seemed like to those on the outside.

At a certain point, people stopped being themselves and started behaving in whatever manner would keep them inside, keep them from losing their golden ticket, out of fear of being alone. The inner circle was something that people would trample over one another to maintain just for the sake of preserving the status quo and ensuring that their label or status of popularity remained beneficial. It became a toxic lifestyle, one ruled by selfish motives and backstabbing friendships. So, no, you weren't alone - but you were constantly surrounded by people and systems that were ultimately suffocating. Eventually, personal growth meant risking your place in the social order of things - so people stopped growing. I stopped growing.

In college, the labels have expanded to include some new criteria without ridding themselves of the old ones: political views, sexual history, greek letters, academic standing, etc. But the pivotal label of 2016: Liberal or Conservative / Trump Supporter or Hilary Fanatic / Feminazi or White Supremacist... The list goes on.

Funny thing is, no matter how many variations of these labels come along, the effect remains the same - we're boxing people in by categorizing them into static objects and labels. We're all guilty of it. This past election acts as proof that, no matter the age or stage of education, every single person does it. I get why we do - categories simplify concepts that can be overwhelmingly complicated. It's easier to form an opinion on something that is static rather than developing. But if the result is a system that confines and suffocates rather than inspires - is easier really better?