Several successful real estate agents — movers and shakers in the industry — were meeting one afternoon. A newbie mortgage broker asked if she could sponsor lunch as a way of making business connections. I knew money was very tight for her, and she never bought takeout for herself or her family. Swinging a takeout lunch for six women was a real stretch. She walked into the conference room with a shaky smile and a fresh $80 sushi platter from one of the most popular cafés in town.

There was silence in the room. One of the women at the center of the conference table glanced at the platter and smirked.

“Hey, that’s it?” she asked. “I thought you said you were bringing lunch!”

The others laughed. “Yeah, we came hungry!” someone added.

Within moments, the newbie mortgage broker’s features shriveled, her face reddening.

I was all too familiar with the scenario because I had been there before. The setting may have been different — it was in a high school lunchroom instead of a conference room. My bullies were a decade or two younger. But that was the only difference. The intensity and sharpness of the torment were identical.

The newbie mortgage broker may have stammered an apology and tried to introduce herself. But I couldn’t hear any of it because I was experiencing a flashback to an almost identical scenario.

It was the Chanukah chagigah in 11th grade. I was determined to do everything right. Lacoste sweaters were all the rage at the time, and I decided that I needed one. My mother couldn’t afford to spend much on my wardrobe, and I was usually okay with that. But this time, the sweater was so important to me that I decided to use my hard-earned babysitting money to buy one. I spent hours at the mall until I struck gold: a black Lacoste pullover on the sale rack. Eighty dollars. My size. It would cost me eight hours of babysitting, but it was worth every penny. I felt like it was social capital that would allow me to enjoy (or at least make it through) the chagigah.

I walked into the Chanukah chagigah with more confidence than I had ever felt. I had spent two hours ironing my crimpy hair. My white shirt was crisp and looked sharp under the stylish black sweater. I allowed myself to breathe, take in the decor, and slowly walked over to the buffet tables. When a classmate began chatting with me, I felt my shoulders relax; I even smiled as I reached for a cup of iced coffee.

But then she came over. My heart began beating fast. “Flee. Run away from her,” it told me. My mind tried to reason with my heart, “You look amazing. Smile and stand straight! Don’t let her get you down. Don’t give her power.”

Several other popular girls from my class surrounded her, and the stakes were now higher. The conflicting voices were booming in my mind: “Flee to the bathroom!” and “No! You look amazing! You can do this!”

I stood, frozen in place. I would not run away. I took a deep breath and a slow sip of the cool, sweet drink, allowing my heart rate to settle.

My tormenter walked over. “Oh! Raizy has a new Lacoste sweater! Just when they’ve gone out of style. Let me guess, you found it on the clearance rack?”

How did she know? was my first thought. The competing voices in my mind were at it again: “Run. Run. Run.” And then: “Stand straight! You look sharper than any of them! Don’t give her power!”

The first voice won, and I ran. But it took me several moments to escape from the room, enough time for me to hope that someone — ANYONE!?? — would stand up for me. But no one did. A few girls snickered as they began scooping pasta and salads onto their plates. They were completely oblivious to my pain, my crushed night, my crushed Chanukah, my crushed year.

My high school experience left me shattered. But it also left me with heightened sensitivity to others. It was a decade later, and I recognized that the $80 sushi platter was the $80 sweater. The bully. Her cronies. The bystanders. Was there someone — ANYONE? — to stand up for the victim?

There wasn’t.

I would have to be that someone.

“Hey, thanks so much for bringing lunch.” It took a moment to realize it was my voice. I did it. I even shot the bully a sharp look, and she actually blushed. The others were quiet.

I asked the newbie a few questions and took down her contact information. Some of the others took her information as well, the atmosphere more subdued.

I had done it. I had come full circle.

Once I recognized the bully in the conference room, I realized they were everywhere.

I was once at a broker’s open house. I sat next to Chaya, a sincere, well-meaning broker. She was new to the field, and she was trying hard because her family’s parnassah situation was precarious. She asked several questions and made a few thoughtful observations about the property.

Some of the industry veterans snickered. One even gave her the name of “Morah Chaya.” The others thought it was hysterical. Chaya was devastated and deeply hurt. The title and reputation of “Morah Chaya” followed her long after the open house.

Perhaps my line of work is a particularly aggressive, competitive field that allows bullying to fester. But it’s not only at work.

I was recently at a wedding when a slightly harried woman walked over to my table. She sat down at an empty seat and began eating the elegantly plated appetizer. The lady beside her, a polished and impeccably dressed young woman, was talking intimately to someone else, completely ignoring the newcomer. After several minutes, she turned to her and said sharply, “I was saving that seat for someone else!”

Bright-faced, she mumbled an apology, scooped up her worn evening bag, and quickly walked away from the table (and probably the hall). The exchange happened so quickly, I could hardly process it, let alone stand up for the victim.

I felt a surge of frustration. Ladies, seriously? It was a different setting — a wedding hall, instead of the school lunchroom — and different age brackets. But the stories were exactly the same. Name calling. Mockery. Exclusion. Humiliation.

I’d like to think that many high school bullies have outgrown their tendencies. It’s a well-known axiom that hurt people hurt people, and hopefully, some of the hurt that turned people into bullies was processed so the cycle doesn’t continue anymore. But unfortunately, the bullies don’t all stop cold turkey at the end of their school years. They can show up at a bungalow colony circle, at a work meeting, at a wedding, or at a broker’s open house. It can happen anywhere.

If you’re a victim, recognize what’s going on. You are not crazy. It’s astonishing how accomplished and confident women can crumble in the face of a sharp, intimidating bully. It doesn’t matter if the bully is 16, 36, or 56. Don’t give her power. Remember, it’s more about her than about you. Often, it’s the bully’s own insecurities and weaknesses that are playing out. Remember your own greatness, and stay calm. Don’t crumble. Seek support. In moments of intense pain, connect with Hashem.

Bullying thrives on the quiet bystanders.

It’s uncomfortable to fight the tide. It may feel socially off. Often, the exchanges happen so quickly, they are over before you blink an eye. But remember that a person is crying out for someone to help. It takes great strength to be that someone. And if you can do it, you will never regret it. Ff

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)