One form of bullying is belittling. Gradually, belittling eats away at a person’s self-confidence and belief in their abilities. I experienced this kind of belittling from my classmates right from the very beginning of my studies.
The first incident I remember happened during a gallery visit. That same day, we had all learned the results of a previous exam. Some of my classmates were standing in a small group outside the gallery. From their conversation, I understood they had been betting on who would get the highest grade. As I approached, they were comparing their scores.
Eventually, one classmate asked me what grade I had received. I told them I got a 5 (the highest grade). Suddenly, everyone looked at me in disbelief. One even said, “Oh, you actually got a five?” I remember feeling both hurt and stunned by their reaction. I couldn’t understand why they treated me that way.
The belittling continued throughout my entire studies. I remember one particular incident when we were editing a video in a small group. My group was trying to find a special effect in the editing software we were using. I told them several times where to find it. At one point, I even pointed to the exact spot on the screen. But no one listened to me; no one registered what I said. Eventually, they asked the teacher, who then showed them exactly the same place I had been trying to explain all along.
Another time, before the teacher arrived, my classmates were going over the grades for a certain assignment. They were praising each other’s work, especially Santtu’s, who had received a grade of 4. Someone happened to ask what grade I got, which was a 5. Upon hearing this, several people visibly reacted with surprise and openly questioned how it was possible that Santtu got a 4 while my “crappy work” earned a 5…
My time as a student was full of moments like these. Every time, I kept quiet. I said nothing, I didn’t defend myself. But silence breeds bitterness. Inside me, a bad feeling grew, day by day, insult after insult, building up pressure and pain.
These constant moments of belittling and dismissal chipped away at my confidence and self-worth. I began to doubt myself, wondering if maybe I really wasn’t good enough. If maybe all the hard work I put in wasn’t seen or valued by those around me. The laughter, the disbelief, the silence —they weren’t just words or reactions; they became barriers between me and the sense of belonging I longed for.
Looking back, it’s clear what I endured was not just “tough times” or “normal student challenges.” What I faced was bullying, exclusion, and racism. It was a systemic and personal assault on my identity, my dignity, and my right to be part of that community.
Being belittled, ignored, and openly discriminated against chipped away at my confidence and sense of belonging. The silence from others wasn’t just awkwardness. It was a failure of empathy and courage, which left me isolated and vulnerable.
These experiences left deep scars—emotional wounds that affected how I saw myself and how I navigated the world. But naming these harms is a crucial step toward healing. By telling my story openly, I reclaim my voice and my truth. I refuse to let these injustices define me or silence me.
Understanding what happened allows me to forgive myself for the ways I struggled and to see my resilience for what it truly is: a testament to my strength.
Don’t get me wrong — there were also good times in the group. Moments when I was genuinely included, when we laughed together, and for a while, it felt like I belonged. That’s part of why my experience was so complicated and painful. The group’s behavior toward me wasn’t just one thing; it was a mix of kindness and cruelty, inclusion and rejection. These fleeting moments of acceptance didn’t erase the hurt or the exclusion I faced, but they showed me that connection was possible, that not everyone had shut me out completely.
Yet, those moments made the darker times even harder to bear. They created a confusing contrast, because I could see what I was missing; genuine acceptance, respect, and friendship, and also what I truly deserved. This made the rejection sting more deeply, as it was not just absence of kindness but a painful reminder of my vulnerability and isolation.
I often wonder why I remained silent through it all. Fear played a huge role — fear that speaking up might only worsen things or turn more people against me. I worried that no one would listen or believe my side. The weight of exclusion and ridicule was heavy, and silence sometimes felt like the only way to survive, day after day.
At the same time, I try to understand my classmates’ silence. Maybe they didn’t fully grasp how deeply their words and actions affected me. Perhaps they didn’t intend to hurt me. Maybe they felt uncomfortable, unsure how to respond, or simply afraid of confronting difficult realities. Fear, ignorance, and social pressure often paralyze people, making silence easier than speaking out.
But no matter their intentions, their silence was loud and clear. It allowed the cruelty to continue unchecked and left me feeling invisible and alone. Their inaction became a form of exclusion just as painful as the harshest words.
These experiences also profoundly affected the group dynamics overall, and especially the group’s dynamic toward me.
Because I was subjected to exclusion, belittling, and racism, the group’s interactions became charged with tension and unspoken divisions. My visible struggles —whether emotional pain, silence, or moments of withdrawal— likely made some classmates uncertain about how to relate to me. This uncertainty sometimes translated into avoidance or even hostility, as fear and discomfort often breed distance rather than empathy.
At the same time, the group’s tolerance for racist remarks, belittling, and silence about bullying created an environment where exclusion was normalized. The fact that few spoke up or challenged these behaviors signaled an implicit acceptance that I was somehow different or less worthy. This tacit acceptance reinforced social boundaries that pushed me further to the margins.
Yet paradoxically, there were moments when I was included. Moments when laughter was shared and connections briefly formed. These moments revealed that the group was not entirely closed off to me. But they also deepened the confusion and pain, because they showed me what I was missing: genuine belonging and respect. The contrast between inclusion and exclusion heightened my awareness of the barriers I faced.
In this way, the group dynamic toward me was complex and fluctuating. It was marked by a painful mix of rejection and brief acceptance, silence and cruel words, isolation and occasional connection. These mixed messages made it harder for me to trust or feel safe in the group, and likely made it harder for others to understand how deeply their actions affected me.
On a broader level, the unresolved tensions and unaddressed harms created instability within the group as a whole. The culture of silence and complicity around racism and bullying prevented the group from developing a truly supportive and inclusive community. Without open dialogue and accountability, the environment became one where cruelty could persist and division deepened.
Ultimately, these dynamics left me isolated and vulnerable — not because I lacked worth or talent, but because the group, through both action and inaction, rejected me.
Understanding this complexity helps me see that exclusion is not a personal failure but a reflection of broader social dynamics that need to be challenged.
I’m telling you all this because I have come to understand how these experiences shaped what happened later in the group. My pain, my resentment, and even my behavior did not arise from nowhere. They grew out of the exclusion, the isolation, and the ongoing hurt I carried inside.
These wounds shaped how I felt, how I saw myself, and how I interacted with others. When you live under constant belittling, dismissal, and the normalization of racism, you begin to absorb those messages. They shape your sense of worth, your ability to trust, and your place in the world.
But it didn’t just affect me as an individual. Their silence, their unwillingness to confront what was happening, and the quiet acceptance of cruelty created the foundation for how I was treated and thought about later. Each unchallenged moment reinforced the idea that I was “other,” that I didn’t belong, that my voice didn’t matter.
These group dynamics weren’t just about isolated incidents — they became a pattern, a culture, shaping how people saw me and how they behaved toward me over time. Without even realizing it, many in the group likely began to view me through the lens of the exclusion they themselves helped create.
And so, while I do not tell this to defend my later actions or to shift all the blame onto others, I tell it to understand. To understand how pain doesn’t arise in a vacuum, how resentment can take root when someone is repeatedly silenced, and how group dynamics can turn harmful when no one dares to break the silence.
Because without understanding these dynamics, we cannot truly understand what happened or how to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
I’m not saying this to excuse my behavior or deny my own responsibility. Rather, I share it to seek understanding — to recognize the full picture of how complex and intertwined these experiences are. Pain doesn’t exist in isolation. It leaves marks, influences our choices, and shapes our responses.
By acknowledging this, I hope to break the cycle of silence and misunderstanding, to find compassion for myself and, perhaps, to invite others to reflect on how their actions or inactions can deeply impact someone’s life.