Ba Ba Black Sheep

I’ve never really fit in.

Not in school, not in society, not in a lot of the spaces people expect you to blend into. I’ve always been the one who felt too much, questioned everything, and refused to pretend everything was okay just to make others comfortable. I used to think that made me broken. Turns out, I was just different.

I’ve been through trauma. Abuse. A lifetime of pressure to shrink myself, stay quiet, and be something I’m not. And for a while, I tried. I tried to push it all down, keep it moving, be who I was “supposed” to be. But the truth is—I had to fall apart. I had to get real with my pain to find any kind of peace.

That’s the thing people don’t talk about enough: darkness isn’t the opposite of light, and it sure as hell isn’t “evil.” Darkness is where a lot of us start. It’s where we hide the parts of ourselves that hurt the most. But it’s also where we find our strength—if we’re willing to sit in it long enough to hear what it has to say.

I’ve been through some deep stuff.

Sexual assault. Manipulation. Predators who wore masks.

And maybe worst of all—the moments I turned on myself.

The self-harm. The inner war. The belief that I somehow deserved what was happening.

I even slipped into a victim mindset, stuck in survival mode, thinking I had no control.

And through it all, I stayed silent.

Not because I didn’t have people who loved me—but because I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t be believed. Scared I’d be told it wasn’t that bad. Scared that if I spoke, it would somehow become my fault.

I felt like I had to be the strong one.

The mature one.

The one who just “knew better” and didn’t need help.

I was born with a soul that felt older than my body. I’ve always seen things differently, felt things deeply. But just because I had wisdom didn’t mean I didn’t need care. Or safety. Or softness.

And let me be clear—my parents love me. They always have.

They aren’t to blame for the things that happened.

This was part of my soul’s path.

Not fair. Not deserved. But mine. And every scar carved out a deeper place for my light to live.

Eventually, I learned the only thing I really had power over:

My perception. My reaction. My choice.

I couldn’t undo what happened to me.

But I could choose how I moved through it.

I could choose to stop punishing myself for surviving.

I could choose to find peace inside the pain.

And I could choose to help others do the same.

So if you’re still reading this, maybe it’s because part of you is ready to hear it:

You are allowed to want to be seen.

You are allowed to need to be heard.

And you are the only person who can give yourself the life you’ve been waiting for.

It’s okay to say, “I’m not okay.”

It’s okay to say, “I need help.”

It’s okay to be the green sheep—the different one, the deep feeler, the one who doesn’t fit.

You don’t have to be perfect to have peace.

You don’t have to be healed to be worthy.

You just have to be willing to look at yourself and say:

“I’m still here. I’m still trying. And that’s enough.”

I’m not afraid of your darkness.

I’ve walked in my own.

And if you’re ready to rise—I’ll walk beside you, too.