The Black Sheep – the One Who Sees More

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Illustration created with AI, based on a photo by Flavia Czarnecka from New Mexico (2023)

Joanna Bielec on the courage to be yourself when everything around you says: “you don’t belong”

“Black sheep” – it’s a phrase we hear a lot.
And unfortunately, it almost always carries a negative weight: the one who causes trouble in the family, who didn’t make it, who brings shame. Often also: misunderstood, rejected, excluded.

But… does it really have to mean something bad?

I’ve come to see that much of what was once strong, precious, and natural has been distorted or destroyed.
Just as wise women and healers were once shamed and silenced — called witches and cast out — today it’s the ones who don’t fit the mold that are labeled: the black sheep.
It’s a vast topic. One that stirs something deep in me.

Recently, a cousin told me something remarkable: that in Ireland, every flock of sheep has at least one black one. It’s a natural part of the whole. And so are we — you, me, every black sheep. We are needed. Essential.

The black sheep is not a problem. She’s a unicorn. Someone unique.
Someone who has access to what others don’t yet see or feel.
Often highly sensitive, unwilling to obey a system of heartless rules and rootless beliefs.
She is — in the oldest sense — a witch. One who knows. One who sees.

It is the black sheep who brings the skeletons out of the family closet: the secrets, the traumas, the inherited patterns.
In my own family, it was exclusion.

I discovered I’m the third generation in which a sister has been cast out.
And I believe that by facing it, working through it, not disowning my power as the black sheep — I can stop that cycle. I can bring healing.
And I deeply hope that’s what’s happening now.

I’ve always felt “different.”
At times, I even wondered if my parents were truly my parents — how could we be so different?
Being different was a heavy burden.
But I was lucky — there was one person made of the same clay as me.
My grandfather, Karczewski… he was mine.
I smile every time I think of him. 🙂

I was the little girl who built her own villages, had “big brothers,” and countless “aunties.”
Now I understand why — but that’s a story for another time.
I pulled people into my world of play, and proudly wore the number “2” the religion teacher once drew on my forehead — the lowest possible grade in Polish school back then — for asking “inconvenient” questions in class.
I believed the world was more than just people. That there were fairies, forest spirits (I still look for them in the woods!).
I dreamed that, as humans, we could be whole.
And the only person who accepted that whole version of me… was my grandfather.

Along the way, I picked up many labels:
– weird
– too sensitive
– selfish
– a victim
– not empathetic enough… but also “too much”
– broken

Definitely not like the others.

For years I tried to adapt. To earn approval.
To do anything, just to be seen as the real me.
But that “real me” — along with my anger (which I hadn’t yet recognized, because good girls aren’t supposed to be angry) — got buried deep inside.
I built walls around my light, so it wouldn’t blind anyone.
I suffered.
And my son suffered with me.
Because how can a child bloom when the mother is shut down?

Do you know that feeling?

Gabor Maté says we only have two options:
1. Leave those who are holding us back,
2. Or… stay with them — and leave ourselves.

Both paths are painful.
But only one leads to true joy.
Only the first lets us truly meet ourselves, shed the armor we’ve worn for years just to survive.

It’s the path that leads to a moment when you can finally say:
“That’s me. That’s you. And we are what matters.”

That’s the moment when everything begins to shift.
Sometimes people — even those closest to us — walk away.
And it’s hard to blame them. They’re in a different place.
Maybe it’s not yet their time to see what you’re showing them.
Not everyone has the courage to heal.
For some, what you’re doing looks like death — the death of what they’ve always known.
But for you — it’s birth.
And even though it hurts, you’re the one who can break the ancestral chain.

For yourself.
For your children.
For those yet to come.

Today, I see what I’ve gained.
I have a beautiful connection with my son (it wasn’t always that way).
I can see that life feels lighter for him too. ❤️
I see myself.
And that is a huge gift — also in my work as a therapist.

I carry the joy of the excluded — because that wound lives in my lineage.
And I hold my black sheep close.
I thank her — for the access to every emotion, even the messy ones.
For the rage.
For the difference.
Because it is powerful. And beautiful.
Thanks to her, I am whole.
And even if I sometimes lose my way — I know how to find the road back.

Because the black sheep isn’t destruction — she is the beginning of change.
She’s the one who breaks the old, rigid order.
The one who names things — even the uncomfortable ones.
The one who opens a space for something new, something more true.

I’m not the problem.
I’m the answer.
I am the Black Sheep — and I am proud of it.

Photo: Joanna Korzeniowska
Joanna Bielec – therapist, mother, a woman with the heart of a witch and the soul of a light-bringer. She gently guides people back to themselves — with tenderness, authenticity, and the knowing that even the most difficult experiences can become deep resources. Highly sensitive and profoundly intuitive, she works with those who are ready to see themselves beyond the masks. She doesn’t pretend to be perfect — instead, she teaches how to befriend your anger, your flaws, and your not-knowing.
To many — a guide. To herself — a human being, always becoming.

A few things you might want to know

We use feminine language because this field was born from that sensitivity.
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