Chapter 2 – A Game I Didn’t Choose
By the time I was old enough to notice patterns, I already knew I was in a game—one I hadn’t picked.
The rules weren’t written down. They weren’t explained. And yet, they were everywhere: in the way praise and punishment was doled out, in the way Lauren glided through the world and in the quiet way I was always compared to her. There was always this persistent sense that I was harder to place. Harder to understand. Someone that required an extra explanation no one seemed to have.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but competition had been built into my life long before I could even spell the word. And for reasons I wouldn’t fully understand for years, the first opponent I was handed wasn’t across a tennis net or a classroom desk—it was my own sister, the standard I could never quite meet, and the quiet referee of my childhood.
Lauren was focused, disciplined, precise—she seemed to instinctively know how to navigate expectations. She followed the rules without questioning them. She collected trophies, praise and attention as if it were second nature. Adults trusted her. She thrived under pressure, and it looked effortless.
I was different. Adventurous. Impulsive. Direct. I spoke before thinking. I questioned everything. I wanted to try new things constantly. I was curious in ways that didn’t always translate well to classrooms or dinner tables. Where Lauren felt predictable, I felt chaotic. Where she felt contained, I felt expansive.
Because she came first—because she was the oldest and the example—I became the child they didn’t have the instruction manual for. I was told that often, and reminded of it again in adulthood. Lauren was easy. I was complex. My mom didn’t understand me and my parents frequently talked about how to “handle” me. Lauren fit neatly into the structure they understood; I didn’t.
This comparison began as a tiny puncture—so small it was almost imperceptible, so quiet it almost passed unnoticed. But it grew. It seeped into the wider world: classrooms that tallied grades and behavior, courts that counted wins, the silent arenas of appearance where attention was currency—arenas designed to measure, to rank, and to display who was winning and who was falling behind.
School was the first place competition took shape—not announced, but coded into systems that rewarded some and punished others. Stillness. Obedience. To perform the version of yourself others approved of, to please without question, to vanish behind the right behavior. Success was public, announced, compared. Lauren excelled here—book smart, flawless, disciplined. I was street smart, instinctive, shrewd—but that counted for little in this world.
In those early years, I learned that success wasn’t simply about creativity, uniqueness or intelligence. It was about conformity—playing by the rules of whatever arena you were in. In this arena, praise had a spotlight. Failure had a chair.
In kindergarten and first grade, my sister and I went to a Christian elementary school. Our parents were devout at the time, which suited Lauren perfectly—she was already preaching the gospel to anyone who would listen on the beach at five, memorizing Bible verses like a tiny, enthusiastic pastor. I, on the other hand, was testing the limits of human decency by jumping on strangers’ perfectly crafted sandcastles, usually yelling, “Repent!” just to see if they would.
Lauren’s name appeared in the Golden Book—a notebook filled with the names of students whose behavior had been deemed exemplary, written in glittery gold ink that caught the light during assemblies. Each reading was a small performance, a public acknowledgment of “goodness.” Fridays brought a king‑sized candy bar, a tangible reward, but the true prize was the recognition itself: the applause, the whispered admiration, the sense of belonging.
I sat in the audience, wishing, willing, hoping my name would shimmer in the Golden Book someday. Then I returned to class and performed every sign of “goodness” I could imagine. Hands folded. Pencil held just right. Letters spaced evenly on the page. Posture straight, back rigid, feet planted. I tried to shape myself into the student who deserved notice. The one whose name could glitter in gold.
But the Golden Book was for kids who fit the mold. The Red Chair was for kids who didn’t. And somehow, it always felt nearer, more familiar—closer to home than any glittery gold page.
It was placed in the doorway during recess, turned outward so anyone passing could see you. Kids stopped to ask what you had done wrong, whispering and staring as they walked by. I didn’t have a filter. I asked too many questions. I provoked kids. I acted out. Sometimes I lied—elaborate, unnecessary stories I couldn’t explain. Maybe fantasy felt safer than reality. Maybe attention—even the wrong kind—felt better than disappearing altogether.
Sitting there, heat rushing to my face, I wished I could dissolve into the wall behind me.
School wasn’t hard because I wasn’t smart—I just wasn’t built for stillness. Eight hours in a classroom felt like being trapped in a box, my mind bouncing from one idea to the next, restless, relentless. I could hyper-focus—on art, on movement, on problem solving—but the walls of the classroom wanted to contain me, to fold me into their quiet, measured order.
Lauren fit. She moved through school in a steady, effortless rhythm—straight-A student from kindergarten to senior year, every assignment submitted, every test aced, every project exact. She graduated high school with a 4.8 GPA—flawless on paper, untouchable in reputation.
I hovered around a 4.2. Strong, yes, but always in shadow. Recognition never landed on me; it was already claimed. Someone else’s measure, someone else’s prize.
And if that was the standard—how far below it was I?
Sports became another arena, where the rules of comparison were written in scores and rankings, and tennis only magnified it.
I hated tennis. I hated the way it highlighted exactly where I stood compared to Lauren, but I also felt something heavier than inadequacy: resentment.
And yet, I returned, again and again, despite hating it, despite knowing I could never match her—or be enough in that arena. Why? Because it wasn’t just about the game. It was about my dad.
He told me stories about him and his brother, two years apart like Lauren and me. He hated losing to his older brother, so he started training harder. He worked out longer. He practiced more. Eventually, he started beating his older brother and eventually his older brother quit. And so beneath every serve, every drill, every pre-dawn practice, the unspoken lesson pressed in: raw skill was a beginning, not a guarantee. To be seen, to matter, you had to endure, to fight, to outlast—beyond talent, beyond yourself.
In high school, Lauren went 135–0. She was inducted into the school’s hall of fame. To her, it barely mattered. She skipped school for tournaments and still maintained her flawless 4.8 GPA. She was the one everyone noticed. My record was strong—but it never counted the same way.
Her trophies overflowed, boxed or discarded to make room for more. People would see our last name on my sweatshirt and ask, “Are you that Stratman tennis player?” Before I could answer, my mom would say, “You’re thinking of Lauren—my other daughter.” Eventually, I started echoing it myself: “No, that’s my sister, Lauren. I’m the other Stratman.”
I was always number two. Lauren ranked in the top five in Southern California; I floated somewhere in the top twenty. She entered high school as the number-one player; I entered as number two.
On paper, it should have been impressive.
It wasn’t. I moved through her shadow, a constant echo, a reminder that excellence could belong to someone else.
I tried other sports—favoring gymnastics and track & field—but wanting to try and be good at them all wasn’t celebrated. It was inconsistency. Lack of commitment. Evidence that something was wrong with me.
The messages from home didn’t help. My dad said explore and find your passion. My mom said pick one and commit. To him, I was searching. To her, I was lost.
So I kept returning to tennis. Always returning. Not for the love of the game, but because it was the one place where I could reach for his attention—even knowing I could never match Lauren.
When achievement failed to earn it, attention found me elsewhere—in ways I couldn’t control. Slowly, I realized there was another arena—one measured not by points but by appearance, by how closely I resembled the mold that others approved.
People noticed my looks—and acted as if that gave them a right to comment on them. My mom was beautiful, my dad striking, and people often remarked how I looked like a mix of the both of them. It was attention I never asked for, yet could never step away from. Quiet or sharp, subtle or glaring, it pressed in on me, a currency I hadn’t chosen but was forced to carry.
Tennis had been a world of points, rankings, and approval earned through performance. Appearance was different—but the rules were just as rigid, the stakes just as high. I didn’t want that kind of attention, but it was the only kind available. Lauren was praised for what she did; I was praised for how I looked.
The confusion cut deep. Strengths shone, weaknesses whispered judgment, and the spaces in between carried a silence heavier than words. Love existed alongside comparison; warmth sat beside unpredictability.
My body—the first arena where praise and shame collided—would become the measure of love, judgment, and the complicated desire to please while also wanting to be free.
And at the center of the arena, waiting for me as I stepped onto the mat, was someone whose judgments stung with the weight of authority, whose example had quietly taught me the rules of this new game—how to be noticed, how to be measured, how to be found lacking: my first bully.
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