The Sheep

It was around 7:05 A.M. when I slowly pulled over to the side lane, prompted by the unmistakable wail of a police siren behind me. After awkwardly parking, I hurried to gather my driver’s license and insurance. A female officer approached my window. She smiled as I handed her my documents and asked the familiar question: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I genuinely didn’t. I've been so careful lately. Ever since getting caught speeding, I’d driven like someone had something to lose—because I do. The officer told me I had passed a stopped school bus, its sign extended, red lights flashing. In the haze of early morning, I hadn’t even registered it. I tried to explain. “I swear, I’m not the type to run over kids.”

She smiled. She went easy on me. Just a warning. I drove away toward Caribou Coffee, still flustered, thinking about what I’d missed. And what it meant.

At that moment, I wasn’t just someone who forgot a traffic law. I was someone who felt out of sync—like a sheep who had strayed from the flock.

We are all part of a herd in some way: our families, our communities, our friend circles. There’s comfort in that collective movement, in knowing you belong. But when you’re struggling with health—especially mental health—it’s easy to become the black sheep. You slow down. You take detours. You forget things. You ask for help more often than you want to.

And over time, that weight starts to press into the way you see yourself.

At 30, mortality doesn’t just cross my mind in poetic terms—it settles on my chest with the heaviness of unfinished goals and fragile health. Each video visit, I fill out a questionnaire before my psychiatrist appointment. One line always jumps at me: “Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself?”

No. I don’t want to die. Not in the way people might think. I want to grow old in a quiet house filled with love and soft lighting. I want to leave this world gently. But when you’re in pain—whether physical or emotional—you start seeing the world through a narrow tunnel. It’s not that you want to leave. It’s that you just want the pain to stop.

And fighting that darkness—fighting to stay here—isn’t some defiant rebellion. It’s a quiet, grueling endurance. A fight that few people see. You’re not fighting to prove anything. You’re fighting because you’re tired, but you still care.

I’ve recently returned to caregiving work. It’s taught me something profound: there’s a sharp difference between dying from a physical illness and dying from a mental one. Years ago, doctors found a benign lump in my breast, but I can’t help but worry about what the future might hold. Working with hospice clients gave me strength, perspective—and also a quiet understanding that suffering wears many faces. Death from physical illness is raw, visible. Death from mental illness is quieter but no less devastating. I’ve learned that suffering doesn’t always look like crying—it often looks like silence. And loneliness.

Being the black sheep isn’t always a choice. Sometimes you’re labeled that way just because you’re the one who struggles. The one who asks for understanding instead of offering it. The one who needs space when others need closeness. And sometimes, you become the black sheep not out of rebellion—but simply because you couldn’t keep up with the herd.

I lost a job once because I was always late. It crushed me. I thought I was lazy. Undisciplined. But the truth was simpler and more painful: I wasn’t managing my medications properly. They left me exhausted, groggy. I slept through alarms. My intentions didn’t matter—my results did.

Eventually, I learned to adjust. I got on top of my routines. I figured out what worked. I haven't missed a morning since. But that didn’t happen overnight. And it didn’t happen without failure.

Being a fighter doesn’t always look like punching back. Sometimes it looks like showing up again after you’ve been humiliated. Sometimes it looks like trying one more combination of meds. Sometimes it looks like asking for help, even when pride screams not to.

The hardest part isn’t surviving the illness. It’s surviving the isolation that comes with it.

I’ve had friends vanish quietly when my depression made me unreliable. I’ve had family members who love me dearly still grow tired of holding space. I’ve seen the silent sadness in their eyes when I couldn’t “get better” on their timeline.

But I’ve also had people—just one—who stayed. Who reminded me, without fanfare, that I still mattered. That I wasn’t broken. Just navigating a harder path.

Mental health struggles often isolate not because people disappear, but because the world moves forward while you quietly fall behind. When you’re navigating anxiety, depression, or chronic emotional pain, small mistakes feel monumental. You forget a traffic rule, or sleep through a shift, and suddenly you’re not just someone who made an error - you’re someone who can’t keep up.

So yes, maybe I missed the school bus. Maybe I’ve missed more than that—opportunities, moments, whole chapters I wish I could rewrite. But I’m still here. Still moving forward. Still doing the work to stay connected to something that matters. Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is to keep walking.

Focusing on what I love—working on projects that spark joy, not obligation—has kept me grounded. It’s helped ease the weight of anxiety, dissolve the edges of burnout, and remind me of who I am beyond the surface.

And when my time comes—whether in a sunlit room at ninety or earlier than planned—I don’t want to be remembered with pity or praise. I don’t need applause.

I just want someone to smile and say, “That girl? She was the fucking sheep.”

Yeah—pun fully intended.