When we were on holiday (back in the 1980s), and befriended the family in the neighbouring chalet, the 12-year-old daughter was apparently jealous of me, because I had more signs of puberty than she did (and I was a year younger than her).
But, bless her, there was really nothing to be jealous of: despite my sophisticated, feminine body, some schoolmates still (falsely) accused me of having flatulence; naggy, ugly old piano-teachers did not start treating me with respect, if I was faltering over flippin' F-major scale at the end of a hard day; and, actually, my puberty brought more & more fodder for the bossy bullies at the horrible, disgusting place known as school.
I remember that in the book Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, the heroine was eager to mature physically. I feel that puberty should = dignity in life; but, sadly, it didn't really work out that way, for me at least.