The Black Sheep Built a Bonfire

I used to think I was invisible.

Not the cool kind of invisibility, like a superpower. But the heavy, painful kind. The kind where you could be in a room full of people—family even—and somehow be the only one not spoken to. The only one not celebrated. The only one never truly seen.

I became so convinced of my invisiblity that I was literally mistaken for a chair at a party and a group of people tossed their coats on me. Yeah.

I became a master at shrinking. A pro at twisting myself into something palatable. I regularyly dangled half-finished sentences in the air because I already knew no one was listening.

When I was little, I used to eavesdrop on my mom's phone calls—not to hear secrets, but desperately hoping to hear her say something kind about me. Just once. Just a tiny sliver of pride or praise. But it never came. Instead, I'd hear her say things like, "Well, you know Mary..." followed by some comment laced with mockery or exasperation. The black sheep. The weirdo. The one who just couldn't do it right.

And when I started blooming, I found myself sucked into relationships and situations that mirrored that early invisibility. Narcissistic partners. One-way friendships. Passive-aggressive co-workers. All confirming the same quiet message:

"You are too much. And also, not enough.”

Fast forward to now.

I’ve clawed my way through trauma and survival. I’ve built a business from literal dust. I’ve created digital products filled with healing, creativity, and fire. I’ve found ways to carve out tiny bursts of time for learning, dreaming, daring.

And then I did it.

I launched my website. My shop. My journals. My dream. My VOICE.

And what followed? A few amazing souls showed up for me. But all the others who knew my story?

Crickets.

No parade. No flood of comments. Not even a, "Wow, look at you go!" from the people who know exactly what I’ve been through.

Instead? Silence. A few likes. A passive-aggressive message or two. A "Gee, I don’t get digital journals, do people even buy those?"

Cue the spiral. The self-doubt. The ache. I started observing the spiral. I was certain it was that old, stubborn idealism of mine expecting everyone to do the kind thing and broken-hearted that they didn’t. But I kept getting the energy of little me listening in on my mom’s conversations. The spiral wasn’t about not getting support through shares and sales. It was because I wanted to be seen.

To be the black sheep who came back to the village and said, "Hey, I made something beautiful. Anyone want to look?"

But that village? It still doesn’t see.

And here’s the hard truth I’m finally ready to say out loud:

Facebook is not my mother.

The algorithm is not my worth.

Their silence is not my value.

Because the black sheep has stopped waiting for applause.

She built a bonfire instead.

And it’s warm here. It’s alive. It’s magnetic. And it’s drawing in the ones who do get it. The ones who whisper, "Me too," in the dark. The ones who are ready to step into their own weird, wild, wonderful magic.

Let’s be clear: being the black sheep is not a flaw—it’s a role the family assigns to the one who won’t follow the script. The one who sees too much. Feels too much. Speaks too loudly. Dreams too boldly.

They call you the problem so they don’t have to face their own unhealed wounds.

But that role? It doesn’t define you. It was never yours to carry.

So if you’re reading this, and you know the ache of invisibility— If you’ve ever created something or shown up real and true and vulnerable and been met with silence— If you’ve ever longed for someone to say, "I see you" and instead got ghosted—

This is for you:

You are not too much. You are not invisible. You are not wrong for wanting to be seen.

You are fire.

You are the spark.

And when the village doesn’t understand you and turns away, build something bigger.

A bonfire.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll start to notice something magical:

Other black sheep are drawn to that fire.

Together, we don’t just break cycles.

We rewrite them.

I’ll meet you there.

Hey, you.
The part of you that’s still waiting for permission?
This is it.
Welcome home.
🖤 Start Here – A quiet, powerful path back to yourself.