Leaving Folks Right Where They Had Me F*cked Up: Navigating Life as a Black Sheep
Remember when I told you about my tattoo and how it represents me? The rose. The light bulb. The glass. Each piece carrying meaning. People are drawn to my light until it flickers. They love the glow, but the moment the current gets unstable, they back away. What they don’t realize is, when I blow a fuse, it’s not me breaking down. It’s the natural consequence of carrying too much voltage alone.
A light bulb doesn’t just illuminate; it exposes. It reveals what’s hidden, forces people to confront things they’d rather leave in the dark. I’ve always been that kind of light. But I’m starting to realize… some people don’t want to see. They just want to bask in the glow until it gets too real.
Lately, I’ve been making a conscious effort to align my energy with the energy I want to attract. After fully embracing that I am an old soul, the black sheep, the one destined to break generational curses, I’ve learned to stop dimming myself, even if it means being labeled a “bitch.” I realized that dimming my light isn’t just a disservice to myself; it’s a slow suffocation. It eats away at me, leaving me hollow and disconnected. I’ve lost friends, distanced myself from family, and endured heartbreak after heartbreak. My love stories are always short-lived, not because I’m incapable of love, but because my light exposes shadows too quickly. And as self-aware as I am, it still leaves me wondering: Am I the problem?
I’ve attracted my share of superficial situationships. I used to attract men with surface-level depth, especially before I fully embraced my own. Back then, I’d go for the man who matched my fly aesthetically, but I soon realized that was just a mask. Beyond a good outfit, he didn’t have much else to offer. They lacked depth and it exposed their insecurities. Kendrick said it best: watch out for men who think they’re cuter than you. It was like being in a girl fight: petty, competitive, always trying to one-up instead of building each other up. These men believed they were the prize, but the truth was, I wasn’t even running that race.
Once I saw the pattern, I shifted toward the so-called “renaissance men.” But while being “woke” is a trend now, it’s been my truth since I was young. I’ve always been a truth-seeker and a truth-speaker. My depth isn’t built on buzzwords or books; it’s forged through lived experience, real knowledge. A lot of these so-called deep men think reading a book makes them enlightened, but real wisdom comes from realizing you never stop being a student.
That’s where I become the mirror. Meeting a real Goddess forces them to confront their own illusions. It shines a light on their shadow sides: their ego, their need to control, their fear of being intellectually and spiritually outmatched. Most of them want to be the teacher, but they don’t realize I’m here to teach too. And when that lesson hits? It bruises their ego.
In my career, especially in the arts—painting, wine, education—I’ve often found myself working as a subordinate to alpha women. The chemistry is undeniable during the interview process; they’re drawn to my light, and it lands me the job. But that’s only during the brief 30-minute interview. When they realize there’s no façade, and I show up this bright every day, that’s when their envy begins to seep out.
When people feel out of control, they tend to seize what they can control. And when they see that my internal glow can’t be dimmed, they go after the things they think I have to adhere to. Alpha women often want me on their team, but there’s always an unspoken rule about how far I can rise. They invite me in, recognizing my talent and drive, but once I start outshining them, their insecurities creep in. I’ve had experiences where, instead of celebrating my contributions, they try to control the things they think they can, such as my appearance and my work processes or anything that might help me stand out. They might give me less room to innovate, nitpick my outfits, or impose unnecessary rules that force me to conform to their way of doing things. It’s not about helping me; it’s about ensuring I stay small enough to fit their narrative.
What they fail to understand is that my authenticity, my light, isn’t meant to compete with theirs. It’s simply a reflection of who I am. And that often feels threatening to those who rely on control to feel secure.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. I wouldn’t be able to read people to filth if I hadn’t first navigated those insecurities within myself. Because I’ve done the inner work, I can now truly identify, understand, and dismiss the actions of others. When I say people subconsciously act out, I’m speaking to the spirits within them. The parts of them they haven’t acknowledged or healed. So when I speak about others’ behavior, it’s not about blaming everyone around me, but about recognizing that a part of my self-awareness is seeing and correcting my own flaws.
I’ve had moments when I caught myself feeling inadequate with a partner or admiring a friend’s light, even vicariously living through their shine. I’ve had to check myself in those moments, confront my own fears and insecurities, because I wouldn’t be able to truly identify the “hater” in someone else if I hadn’t first looked in the mirror and done the hard work on myself.
I used to take it personally. Used to think maybe I was the problem, maybe I was too much, maybe I should dim myself just a little to keep the peace. But I realize now: my light was never the issue. It was the mirror it created, the truth it revealed. And some people can’t handle what they see when the truth is shining directly on them.
I truly be in my own world. I mind my business, stay in my lane, focus on my evolution, and operate on my own frequency. But I can’t help but feel like there’s always an evil eye watching me—especially from people who should be rooting for me. Strangers don’t bother me, but when it comes from familiar faces, it hits different. I feel like a target as I navigate things that would make them fold. And instead of clapping for me, they deflect. Throwing shade, questioning, “Who does she think she is?”
And somehow, after all the betrayals—in intimate relationships, friendships, and work dynamics—I’m still expected to be the bigger person. I’m supposed to let people do them, to accept where they are in their journey, even when it’s at my expense. But the moment I feel the urge to mirror them in a way that isn’t wrapped in grace and understanding, it’s a problem. The expectation is always for me to rise above, to hold space for their growth, even if it means swallowing my own hurt.
The glow of my light bulb isn’t always welcomed. It exposes more than people are ready to see. Some admire it from a distance, but up close, they resent the way it illuminates their own shadows. Certain family members see me rise above situations that would make them fold, yet instead of recognizing my resilience, they grow bitter. Some friends sense that my path is different; that as a chosen one, I move through life with a purpose they can’t quite grasp. They see the battles I fight, the hard balls life throws at me, but instead of acknowledging the weight I carry, they project.
Lovers adore me until they realize that loving me requires depth. It demands work, patience, and an ability to meet me where I am, not just where they wish I’d stay. The light they were drawn to starts to feel like an obligation, and when it forces them to grow, many would rather retreat than rise to the occasion.
It’s as if people want access to my energy, but only on their terms. They want the glow, but not the truth that comes with it.
A light bulb has a glass shield. It can crack, but it still protects the light inside. I’ve been tested, but I’m not breaking. If anything, I’m upgrading and focusing on getting brighter, clearer, and more intentional about who gets to stand in my glow.
If my light flickers and you blow a fuse, you were never built to handle it.