Now that spring is finally here, it means the same thing every year — blankets out, sun’s out, everyone’s out. The HUB lawn fills up almost overnight. Groups scatter everywhere, people laugh a little louder and music plays somewhere in the background.
While I was pretending to do work on my laptop in the sun, I was also deep in a conversation about the “group leader” of a friend group — how they act differently on their own versus when they’re with their friends. It turned into a full analysis of their behavior: why they act the way they do, how they control the tone of the group and how everyone else seems to follow their lead.
They wouldn’t even meet the gaze of anyone with traits or GPAs that they deemed unworthy, which made the group feel cliquey. It became almost impossible to talk to anyone without the “group leader’s” opinion shaping the interaction.
But here’s the thing.
We all have a clique. We call it a friend group because our insight into our own behavior is often limited. But at the end of the day, most of us are part of a group where everyone knows each other so well that it’s difficult for an outsider to join without feeling out of place.
We also carry a quiet belief that our clique is better than everyone else’s. Maybe not in an obvious way, but it’s there — the sense that our group is funnier, more interesting or more put together. The term “clique” often carries a negative connotation, but at its core, it can simply be a group of people with shared interests, similar routines or even the same major.
Still, it becomes more than that. It turns into identity. Into social positioning. Into an unspoken system of belonging.
Some cliques have a very obvious “group leader,” the one everyone looks to for approval. The person who sets the tone: what’s funny, what’s acceptable, what gets attention. People might not admit it, but they adjust around that presence.
Which is where things get more complicated.
Because every clique believes it’s better — not in a loud, arrogant way, but in quieter, internal ways. You look at other groups and think they’re trying too hard, or not as funny or just different in a way that feels off. It creates a subtle hierarchy — an unspoken “us versus them.”
But what happens when you’re in the wrong one?
Sometimes you don’t realize it right away. You spend enough time around them that the dynamic feels normal, and it’s easier to stay than to question it. But there’s an underlying feeling that something doesn’t fully click — not enough to leave but enough to notice.
That’s when the masking starts.
It’s not immediate. It begins in small ways — changing how you react, adjusting your humor, thinking a little longer before you speak. Then it becomes constant. You start asking yourself things you didn’t use to think about: Did that sound weird? Am I coming across the way I want to?
You’re no longer just part of the conversation — you’re monitoring it.
Someone once told me they’re afraid people don’t truly see the “real” version of them because their personality feels like a culmination of the people they’re around. Sort of a “I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved,” but with a more unsettling edge — because in trying to fit in, you start to lose a sense of yourself. You pick up traits from people you find funny or interesting and try to replicate them, all while attempting to seem effortless.
Unlearning that is difficult, because it requires you to stop and ask yourself what you would have done if you weren’t trying to fit in, mask or impress anyone.
There are people you can sit with and not think about any of that. Conversations don’t feel calculated. You’re not replaying what you said in your head or wondering how it came across. You’re not trying to be funny — you just are, or you’re not, and it doesn’t matter.
And once you notice that difference, it’s hard to ignore.
You start to recognize the spaces where you feel like yourself, and the ones where you feel like a version of yourself.
And those aren’t always the same thing.