Noam says I should go to my high school reunion for shits and giggles, because no one will know who I am. They followed me on Instagram recently. It felt like an accident. Out of equal parts wartime boredom and chronic nosiness, I went through the list of kids I grew up with, the followers of the alumni page.

There’s Eleanor (who became Ellie) who did ballet with me when I was five, but didn’t know who I was by sophomore history. There’s Amanda, who was pretty in middle school and then accused me in my DMs of spreading fake news. For someone so obsessed with the Middle East, she’s never made it over here. There’s Zach, who played football and had a one-way crush on an Israeli girl, but now his bio is just three Palestine flags in a row (and a receding hairline).

I could keep going. I hated high school even when I liked it. I was a loser even when I was good at stuff, like I was a crazy good goalie but in field hockey, so I stood in a cage and waited for people to hit things at me. I thought maybe I’d peaked in middle school, so I left and never looked back.

Every girl is taught that aging is the thing to fear most, but it’s been a jagged sort of comfort. It’s what makes all the chaos come into focus. I look at these girls who had everything I wanted at sixteen: the straight hair, the Lululemon leggings, the car by junior year, the hot and emotionally complicated boyfriend.

But now, I just feel a dull sort of pity for them. Maybe (probably) it’s just a way to make myself feel better. Carrie Tucker might have cheered, but she never left my hometown. That blond girl who was a year ahead of me and was the prettiest in the school—I can’t even remember her name now. Most of these kids would judge every choice I’ve made since I left. But the only cure for that fear of judgement was to actually make those choices.

I joined the IDF. I started writing and singing until I finally hit record.

When I release something, they’ll all cringe. But only if they even remember who I am.