My shoulders relax as I walk into the immaculate living room for the weekly neighborhood shiur.

For just a little while, I’m leaving bedtime, pajamas, and tantrums behind. Now I enter classroom mode. Here I’m not the adult in charge of everyone. Now I can sit back, listen, absorb, and learn. I never thought I’d be so glad to return to the classroom.

My good friend Penina is already seated at the large table and she’s involved in an earnest, whispered conversation with another shiur participant, a woman I hardly know.

Penina raises her eyes, smiles at me briefly, and returns to her hushed exchange. I hesitate; should I sit near Penina, as I usually do? Well, she’s busy now. I take my seat at the opposite end of the table.

And suddenly, I am the little girl I once was again. Penina is now interested in another friend; does that mean I mean less to her? The thought makes me flush in shame.

You’re being a baby.

On our way home from the shiur, I wait for Penina to stride up to me and start a conversation. I’m testing her. Will she remember we’re friends or just smile vaguely in my direction again?

Little girl. Sensitive little girl, the big girl inside me taunts.

Fear of rejection is a universal ail. I wonder what would happen if all of humanity got up and announced that we’re all afraid to feel alone or rejected. We’re all scared of each other, so let’s just admit it and give it up. There really is no objective party rejecting the other; everyone is on the same team.

But until that global admission happens, I can’t shake my fear of rejection. With graduation, I believed that I’d waved goodbye to the inferiority complexes that had invaded my younger self. I did keep them at bay for a while, through my first successful job, engagement, marriage — the all-consuming stuff.

But when the dust settled, I realized I hadn’t morphed into a different human being with the change of my last name. I still crave acceptance. I am still afraid to be left out.

Now I am a mother of little girls. Seven-year-old Suri just learned to jump rope, and I am incredulous and proud. I remember my desperate attempts and finally, my hard-earned success.

“Why don’t you go down and jump rope with the girls? I see Laya and Fraidy out there.”

Suri bites her lip. This will be a first for her. Will she make it? Will she jump rope well and get into the crowd?

Of the former I am quite confident. But getting into the crowd… my fear is back.

How will Suri blend into the running, shouting group downstairs? Will she be a presence there or will she be ignored?

Will the girls like me — uh, my little girl?

I stand at the window to watch — protect? — my daughter.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 600)