In 1993, I was nine and in fourth grade. My parents were separated, getting divorced, and I was bullied on the playground at school. I didn’t understand why I was angry all the time. I remember my teacher asking me how I was doing in light of the divorce and I said “GREAT! Maybe now the fighting will stop.” (Spoiler: it didn’t!) 

If I could talk to that nine year old now, I’d tell her to keep her chin up and in ten years, literally none of this will matter. And I know it wouldn’t help her much, but I’d hug her tight and promise that her life will be great in a few short years.