Who You Were in Middle School, According to Your Enneagram Type

Middle school is where souls go to molt.
It’s where your childhood optimism packs up its Lisa Frank folders and moves out, and in its place, a smaller, more suspicious creature begins forming…one who’s learning that humans are confusing, cafeteria pizza isn’t technically food, and popularity is a religion with no consistent doctrine.

Every Enneagram type goes a little nuts here — somewhere between the locker hallway and the existential dread of gym class. You can say your type came from “childhood wounds” or “core motivations,” but let’s be honest: it probably came from the day someone laughed when you tripped during your book report and you vowed, never again.

Let’s revisit those awkward years, shall we? Grab your Trapper Keeper, your hormonal confusion, and your unearned sense of superiority. It’s time to see how your Enneagram type fared in the purgatory known as middle school.

Not sure what your personality type is? Take our Enneagram questionnaire here!

Type One: The Perfectionist (a.k.a. God’s Hall Monitor)

Type Ones in middle school are the reason there’s a “no running in the halls” sign. They didn’t make the rule, but they enforce it like the world depends on it; which, in their minds, it kind of does. If someone doesn’t stand up for order, what’s next? Total anarchy? Group projects without structure? PE games where people don’t follow the rules? It’s chaos, Brenda.

Their binders are immaculate, their pencils are sharpened into deadly mortal weapons, and they experience physical pain when the teacher writes “there” instead of “their” on the whiteboard. While other kids are discovering eyeliner or nihilism, Ones are discovering that the world is deeply flawed, and that it’s somehow their job to fix it.

Deep down, though, they’re not just controlling. They’re terrified of being bad. Not “forgot-my-homework” bad, but unworthy of love bad. So they work harder. They rewrite essays three times. They alphabetize their gel pens. They volunteer to clean the whiteboard erasers after school, because it feels like repentance for that one time they lied about feeding their class fish.

They’re the kid whose inner critic sounds like a disappointed English teacher who drinks too much chamomile tea.

They’re also the first to notice when someone’s crying quietly in class, and the first to silently hand them a tissue and pretend they didn’t see anything, because compassion is allowed, but vulnerability is still terrifying.

Type Two: The Helper (a.k.a. The Emotional Support Preteen Who Never Clocked Out)

If middle school had an unpaid counseling department, the Twos would be running it, complete with a sticker chart for your self-esteem and a candy jar labeled “For Emotional Emergencies Only.”

Type Twos needed to be needed. They weren’t chasing popularity for fun; they were subconsciously applying for the position of “indispensable friend,” preferably one who could heal your soul with half a Capri Sun and a well-timed compliment.

When you forgot your homework, your lunch, or your sense of self-worth, they were already halfway across the classroom, shoving theirs into your hands.

But it’s not all Hallmark energy. Underneath that radiant helpfulness is a slow, simmering panic that says, If I stop giving, people will stop wanting me around. So they give. And give. And give until they’re lying awake at night, seething with resentment toward everyone who took their gum but didn’t ask how they were doing.

Twos in middle school are masters of silent martyrdom. They’ll help you study for your math test, cheer you up after your breakup (even if you dated for 11 hours), and then cry quietly in the bathroom stall when you don’t save them a seat at lunch.

They will never admit they’re angry about it; they’ll just say, “No, it’s fine, I’m just tired,” in the voice of someone who’s emotionally holding together the entire 7th grade.

And God forbid someone actually helps them back. “Oh, you didn’t have to!” they’ll insist, smiling but feeling secretly unmoored because receiving kindness short-circuits their whole operating system. They want to love and be loved without keeping score. But in middle school, they don’t know that yet. They just know everyone seems to like them better when they’re the one carrying the tissues.

Type Three: The Achiever (a.k.a. The Overachieving Cyborg With a Human Heart Somewhere Under All the Stickers)

Type Threes in middle school were the ones who made success look like a personality trait. They were the student council presidents, the team captains, the kids who got straight A’s and somehow managed to smile like they weren’t internally decaying from the pressure. You hated them, but also wanted them to notice you, because they seemed like they had the secret manual for being admired.

Here’s the thing, though. Threes didn’t start out chasing trophies. They just realized very early on that love was conditional, and achievement was the easiest currency. Every gold star, every “you’re so talented” felt like a hit of emotional validation crack, and once you start mainlining approval, it’s hard to stop.

So in middle school, while everyone else was just trying to survive puberty, Threes were out here branding themselves. One week they were “the artistic one.” Next week, “the future valedictorian.” They could morph into whatever version of themselves got the best response. And, secretly, they were just very, very tired from constantly editing the highlight reel of their existence.

If a teacher said, “I need a volunteer,” their hand shot up before they even knew what the task was. They didn’t care what they were doing — they just wanted to be seen doing it well. And on the rare occasion they failed (which, to be fair, was like a lunar eclipse), it felt like the world was ending.

Their inner monologue was basically:

“If I’m not impressive, do I even exist?”

They mastered the art of giving 110% in everything except emotional vulnerability. And they cried maybe once a year,  in the shower, quietly, after losing a spelling bee by one letter.

But underneath all the achievement, there’s a soft, panicked kid who just wants someone to say, “You don’t have to earn this.” They want to be loved not for the straight A’s, the medals, or the leadership positions — but for the exhausted, perfection-strung mess that lives underneath.

Unfortunately, middle school isn’t exactly known for unconditional love. So they double down and win more awards, smile harder, repress better.

And somewhere in the back of their mind, a small voice whispers, “If I stop performing, maybe they’ll finally see me.”
But the applause is too loud to hear it.

Type Four: The Individualist (a.k.a. The Walking Existential Crisis in a Black Hoodie)

Type Fours in middle school are the ones sitting under a tree at recess, staring into the middle distance like they’re in a French art film, probably journaling about how nobody truly understands them except maybe that one substitute teacher who mentioned Sylvia Plath once.

While everyone else is just trying to figure out deodorant, Fours are out here trying to figure out the meaning of suffering.

They are equal parts emotional depth and melodrama, like, yes, they’re actually feeling that much, but also yes, they’re making it worse on purpose because the pain feels like proof that they’re real.
If you asked a Four how they were doing, you were not getting a “fine.” You were getting a sigh, a pause, and a small essay about how the color of the sky reminded them of a dream they had where they were both drowning and flying.

Middle school for a Four is basically a spiritual awakening that nobody else got the memo for.
The group projects are shallow, the conversations are vapid, and everyone’s wearing the same Hollister hoodie like conformity is a moral calling. Fours can’t do it. They will die before being basic.

Their locker is part shrine, part apocalypse bunker, covered in cryptic quotes, old concert tickets, and at least one candle that definitely violates school safety regulations. Their playlist is 80% songs about unrequited love, even if they’ve never been in a relationship. Especially if they’ve never been in a relationship.

Underneath all the being “different,” though, there’s a sense that something essential is missing. They don’t just want to be someone; they want to be someone authentic. They’re frustrated by shallow approval and secretly terrified that the thing that makes them unique also makes them unlovable.

And yet, they notice beauty like other people notice Wi-Fi signals — everywhere, all the time. The glint of light on a water bottle. The smell of rain on asphalt. The melancholy in a piano note that lasts 0.3 seconds longer than it should.

They are heartbreakingly alive and occasionally unbearable.

One minute they’re swearing off humanity, the next they’re writing a letter to their future soulmate (who probably doesn’t exist but might). They want to belong but only if belonging doesn’t require them to blend in.

Middle school doesn’t know what to do with them. So they become mythological in their own minds; the tragic hero of a coming-of-age story nobody’s reading yet.
And someday, when the rest of us are just starting therapy, the Four will already have a three-volume memoir titled “I Told You It Hurt This Much.”

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Type Five: The Investigator (a.k.a. The Child Prodigy Who Already Hates the Group Project)

Type Fives in middle school are the reason “quiet kids” have a mysterious reputation. You’d see them in the corner of the classroom, reading a book that was definitely not part of the curriculum — something like A Brief History of Time or The Psychology of Human Stupidity — and you’d think, Wow, that kid knows things. And you’d be right.

They did know things. Too many things. More things than their nervous systems were built to handle.

While other kids were busy memorizing locker combinations, the Five was busy memorizing the human condition. They were the kind of student who raised their hand to correct the teacher’s answer, and then immediately regretted it because everyone stared and their soul left their body.

Fives learned early that energy was a finite resource; social interaction drained it like a leaky faucet, while solitude recharged it like plugging back into a secret power grid. So they built walls. Not emotional walls (those were already there), but actual mental fortresses. Inside were facts, theories, thought experiments, and the comforting illusion that knowledge equals safety.

Emotionally, middle school was like being dropped into a simulation run by chaos-loving extroverts. The Five would sit there, watching everyone flirt or fight or have emotional breakdowns over cafeteria seating, thinking, So this is what irrationality looks like in the wild. They didn’t hate people, exactly, they just didn’t understand why everyone seemed to need so much from each other all the time.

But here’s the secret nobody saw: behind that detached curiosity was a small, nervous kid who desperately wanted to know enough to feel safe. To not be blindsided. To not depend on anyone who might disappoint them. Knowledge was armor. Isolation was the moat.

While people might have thought it, they weren’t trying to be better than everyone. They were trying to survive the terrifying reality that they couldn’t control everything  and that sometimes, the scariest unknown wasn’t the universe, but themselves.

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Type Six: The Loyalist (a.k.a. The Human Smoke Alarm with Trust Issues and a Surprisingly Heroic Streak)

Sixes were the kids who read the school safety manual for fun and then quietly noticed three violations before lunch. They were anxious, yes, but it wasn’t the flimsy, fluttery kind of anxiety — it was the situational awareness of a battle strategist who’s been reincarnated too many times.

Every classroom felt like a potential war zone. Who’s trustworthy? Who’s secretly plotting something? Why did Mr. Thompson’s tone sound different today? Sixes walked through the hallways with the same energy as a bodyguard who’s one second away from diving in front of a bullet made of social humiliation.

But here’s the plot twist: they’re not just scared. They’re also brave as hell.
Because while everyone else is either melting down or ignoring the chaos, the Six is the one actually doing something. When the group project implodes, they’re the one piecing it back together at 11 p.m. with color-coded notes and caffeine-fueled loyalty. When the teacher calls for a volunteer to give a presentation nobody wants to do, they’ll hesitate, spiral internally for 45 seconds, and then sigh and step forward because no one else will, and someone has to.

Sixes crave security like oxygen, but middle school is a smoke-filled room of emotional instability, unpredictable friendships, and cafeteria food that defies God. So they cope by trying to prepare. They overthink, they double-check, they predict outcomes like tiny disaster analysts. And it works until their brain turns the “what if” dial up to 11.

Inside, there’s a storm of contradictory thoughts: I can’t trust people — but also I need people — but also people are unreliable — but also if I say that out loud I’ll sound paranoid — but also maybe everyone already hates me — oh my god what was that noise.

They’re both the worrier and the protector. The skeptic and the loyal friend. The one who assumes the worst, but still shows up when it happens.

Because at their core, Sixes are courageous in the most inconvenient way possible. They’re scared and still there. They’ll make sarcastic jokes about impending doom, hand you their last pencil, and walk into the emotional fire with you anyway.

Middle school might have been a minefield, but Sixes? They were the ones mapping it while making sure you didn’t step on a single damn bomb.

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Type Seven: The Enthusiast (a.k.a. The Walking Field Trip Permission Slip)

If middle school had a spirit animal, it would be a Type Seven hopped up on orange soda and unprocessed existential dread.

Sevens were the kids who came to class with a new personality every week: magician, skateboarder, budding YouTuber, part-time philosopher, depending on what looked most fun that day. They were opposed to boredom, which was unfortunate because middle school is 97% boredom and 3% vague humiliation.

While everyone else was still trying to find their homeroom, Sevens were already planning their escape.
“Okay, hear me out,” they’d whisper to their friends during math, “What if we all fake sick, go to the nurse’s office, and then run away to start a band? I can’t play any instruments, but I have charisma.”

Every hallway was a new adventure. Every substitute teacher, a potential hostage for their chaotic optimism. They turned everything — detention, the school play, dissection day — into a story worth retelling. The Seven’s brain was basically a Pinterest board made of dopamine hits and half-baked dreams.

But beneath the glitter and gum wrappers, there was something deeper: a quiet fear that if they ever stopped moving, they’d have to face the yawning void of sadness that follows them around like a stray cat. So they kept going. Kept joking. Kept saying “I’m fine” when they were actually on the verge of crying into a Lunchables.

They were the friend who made you forget your anxiety for a while. The one who’d talk you into skipping class to lie in the grass and debate whether souls are real, then distract you from the pain of existing by daring you to eat five ketchup packets.

Teachers adored their charm right up until week three, when the homework excuses became performance art. (“I did it, but then I started thinking about how meaningless it all is, and accidentally wrote a song instead.”)

But under all the chaos was a heart that just wanted to stay light because caring hurt. The idea of sadness felt like quicksand, and they weren’t sure they’d make it back out if they ever let themselves sink.

So they stayed moving, smiling, and plotting their next big idea; a backpack full of half-finished dreams, trying desperately to outrun the ache that made them human.

And honestly? They almost pulled it off.

Type Eight: The Challenger (a.k.a. The Middle School Warlord Who Ran on Adrenaline and Injustice)

If you ever wondered why your middle school had a zero-tolerance policy for “aggressive negotiation,” it’s because of the Type Eights.

Eights in middle school walked through life like they were already leading a rebellion; half gladiator, half exhausted parent of idiots. They were twelve going on “disillusioned veteran,” radiating the kind of energy that made both bullies and teachers think twice.

They were allergic to authority unless they were the authority, and they never half-assed an argument. You could be debating the lunch schedule, and they’d turn it into a courtroom drama complete with opening statements, counterpoints, and the faint threat of a coup.

While other kids were discovering hormones, Eights were discovering power dynamics.
They could sense weakness like sharks smell blood. Why? Because they needed to know who was safe and who would betray them first.

They didn’t trust easily, but once you were in, you were family. The kind they’d fight for, threaten a principal for, and maybe bury evidence for if things got dark enough. Their loyalty was nuclear-grade.
If someone messed with you, the Eight was already cracking their knuckles before you even finished the sentence.

But underneath all the volcanic energy was a tenderness they’d sooner die than admit. The Eight’s whole middle school persona was a way to keep people from seeing how easily they could be hurt. Vulnerability felt like walking into traffic blindfolded, so they covered it with defiance, sarcasm, and enough attitude to power the school’s lighting grid.

Eights saw the hypocrisy in adults, the cruelty in kids, and the brokenness of the system long before they had the vocabulary for it. Their rage was righteous. They wanted justice. They wanted truth. They wanted the world to stop pretending it was fine when it obviously wasn’t.

Still, middle school didn’t know what to do with that kind of intensity. Teachers called them “difficult.” Classmates called them “scary.” They were the reason no one messed with the shy kid. They were the reason some kind of order existed on that godforsaken playground.

And when no one was looking, they probably cried once — furious at themselves for doing it. Then they wiped their face, punched a wall (symbolically, maybe literally), and swore that next time, nobody would ever see the soft parts again.

But they never stopped protecting people. Even when they grew up. Even when it cost them.
Because beneath that thunderstorm of strength, every Eight was just a kid trying to make the world safe enough to finally let their guard down.

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Type Nine: The Peacemaker (a.k.a. The Diplomat in Sweatpants Who Just Wanted Everyone to Shut Up and Get Along)

Type Nines in middle school didn’t choose to be the class therapist; it just kind of happened. One minute they were eating string cheese in peace, and the next they were mediating a breakup between two seventh graders who’d “been together” for six days and were both crying in their direction.

They were the ones saying things like, “It’s not that deep,” while secretly absorbing everyone’s emotional chaos like a psychic sponge with boundary issues. Their peacekeeping was legendary. Their avoidance of confrontation? Even more so.

When the teacher asked a controversial question in class, the Nine’s internal monologue was basically:

“Please don’t call on me. Please don’t call on me. Please don’t call on me—dammit.”

They’d answer diplomatically, of course. They always did. “Well, I can see both sides,” they’d say, which made everyone nod approvingly while the Nine quietly dissociated into another dimension.

Their report cards were full of phrases like “a joy to have in class,” “quiet leader,” and “could speak up more,” which is adult-speak for we have no idea what this kid actually thinks, but they seem nice.

Inside, though, the Nine was a slow-burning volcano. Every time someone steamrolled them, interrupted them, or picked the group project theme without asking, a tiny tectonic plate shifted.
They’d smile, say, “Oh, it’s fine,” and mean it, until it suddenly wasn’t. Then one day they’d snap, unleash a perfectly reasonable opinion they’ve been repressing since fifth grade, and everyone would act like they’d just witnessed a miracle.

Middle school was chaos for the Nine because it was loud, both literally and emotionally. Friend drama. Teacher drama. Hormone drama. They didn’t want to take sides or make waves, but the world kept splashing them anyway. So they retreated into daydreams, doodles, or a carefully curated internal fantasy where everyone got along and no one yelled.

They cared deeply, but softly. And even when they seemed disengaged, they were paying attention to everything; your tone, your sigh, your feelings you hadn’t even named yet.

In middle school, they kept everyone from imploding. In adulthood, they’ll probably do it again, only now they’ll know that their calm isn’t weakness. It’s the superpower that kept civilization intact while everyone else was arguing about who sat where at lunch.

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What Do You Think?

Do you resonate with your Enneagram type’s experience? What advice would you give middle schoolers of your personality type? Let us and other readers know in the comments!

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