The door closed behind us as we stepped into the quiet of the night, his offer to drive still hanging in the air.
The old SUV looked more like a contractor’s truck than a family car, and my expectations lowered. I waited for him to clear off the passenger seat—trying to reconcile this man with the one I’d heard about earlier that day.
With only a few miles to go to pick up the pizza, the conversation flowed easily—starting with how he knew my cousin, then his Cincinnati roots, and finally, to our daughters—the closest things to our hearts.
The unexpected familiarity between us was undeniable, and in that moment, something began.
Not so much a love affair with him—but with the idea of everything he represented: freedom, ambition, a life built on his own terms, giving me the quiet permission to do the same.
The fact that we lived in different cities made it even easier. It gave us the time and space we needed to manage our own busy lives without intruding on each other’s worlds.
Before I knew it, I had resigned from the agency, launched my own consulting business, and purchased a second—then a third—multi-unit property, all in the same small town where I’d raised my daughter. A place known for its top-ranked schools, tree-lined streets, and trains that echoed through the night, whispering stories from another era.
Getting my daughter off to one of the top universities unlocked an enormous sense of possibility. She was free to explore her music in a city made for her, and I was free to explore my entrepreneurial spirit—something that had been trumped by responsibility decades earlier.
And just like that, the gates flew open to a life I’d put on hold for twenty years.
Travel had always been part of my life. At six months old, I was swept into my parents’ dreams of traveling the world when my father’s job took our family abroad—crossing some of the most beautiful landscapes I would ever see. It was a time when we were the happiest, and the magic of that season left a mark I’d never forget. For years, I longed to give my daughter those same experiences—the beauty, the wonder, the family—without knowing how. I couldn’t recreate the past, but I never stopped yearning for what my parents once gave me.
So when someone bigger than life knocked on the door—and made me feel like the center of his world—I remembered the life I once lived and ignored my friends’ warnings that things were moving too fast.
His love for travel, his ambition—and the confidence with which he moved through life—captivated me. Without meaning to, I put him on a pedestal and, in the process, began to neglect the life I had worked so hard to build: the deep roots, the lasting friendships, the quiet rhythm I’d created over decades.
I thought I was chasing something new.
But what I was really doing was drifting from who I already was.
By the end of three years, we had circled the globe together, and he had completely swept me off my feet.
But deep down, I still didn’t know if it was real.
Next week Chapter 7: The Betrayal. Reading Between the Lines.
Looking back now, I can see how the stage had been perfectly set.
But what I didn’t know then was that as glamorous and exciting as travel appeared, it wasn’t who I really was. Yes, I’d been fortunate to experience foreign soil and the beauty of that way of life—but deep down, I loved home. And everything it represented.
Even back then, that made me different from my family. I remember asking if I could stay home when travel plans were being made. I never quite fit in. At some point, I began seeing myself as the black sheep.
Years later, at “camp” (the recovery center), I learned the clinical term for black sheep. And it didn’t happen in a classroom. It happened in a corral. Camp was located in the middle of Kentucky and offered equine therapy—using horses in therapeutic settings to promote physical, emotional, and mental health.
On one particular day, during a group horse exercise, that old ache rose again. There were five of us. Four quickly grouped together, led by someone whose energy felt controlling and familiar. I hesitated. Something in me refused to follow. Instead, I stood my ground, choosing the horse no one else wanted.
At first, it stung. It mirrored a scene from my childhood—my parents and siblings walking ahead of me to a neighborhood gathering I didn’t want to attend. I trailed behind, asking if I had to go. Following, without wanting to.
And here I was again—on the outside of something that never really included me. Wanting the safety of my own truth more than the comfort of belonging. So I stood my ground. I stayed back—and dug in.
The goal of the exercise was for me to cross a line that the group of four was guarding. Their faces beamed with pride, bonded in strategy—expecting an easy win. But what felt like rejection became determination, as the sting became the footing I needed to advance confidently.
The horse mirrored my intentions, and without hesitation, I charged forward—crossing the line and winning the challenge—taking back what had always been mine—despite their disdain.
Later that night, during group reflection, the same four stayed bonded together—downplaying the win—until the therapist interjected and named what I’d witnessed without having the words for all these years. The control. The manipulation. The group dynamic playing out in real time.
She affirmed my choice to step away. To trust myself. To lead differently. And in that moment, I first heard the clinical word for black sheep: scapegoat. The one who carries what no one else will name. The one who takes the hit so the system can stay intact. And in that moment, something clicked.
She didn’t just validate the exercise—she validated my life. I hadn’t been difficult, as my family or teachers once claimed. I had been discerning. I hadn’t failed to fit in—I had refused to betray myself. And suddenly, the rebellion I’d always been blamed for made sense.
I wasn’t the problem. I was a truth-teller. And others didn’t like it.
That day with the horse, I didn’t just win the challenge. I broke the pattern.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a therapist—I’m a certified coach who has not only walked out my own recovery journey, but studied codependency, addiction, and emotional healing for over a decade. I now help others recognize and break the patterns that block them from creating the results they really want.
In family systems, the scapegoat is often the one who questions, disrupts, or refuses to conform—and is punished for it. While the golden child may receive praise and protection, the scapegoat becomes the outlet for the family’s unspoken tension, stress, or shame. Not because they’re broken—but because they’re honest.
Over time, this dynamic wires the nervous system for rejection sensitivity, hypervigilance, and a deep internal conflict: the need to belong versus the need to stay true to yourself.
That’s what made this experience at camp so healing.
In trauma recovery—especially from codependency or emotional abuse—being mirrored back accurately by a safe, attuned authority figure is a turning point. When someone acknowledges what you’ve always known but never had affirmed, it begins to rewrite the story.
It tells your body: You were right to pull away. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t the problem.
This is called a corrective emotional experience—when a present-moment interaction gives your nervous system a new, reality-based memory to replace an old, painful one.
What you once saw as rebellion may have always been wisdom in disguise.
So why am I telling you this?
Because I’ve learned that fitting in is often the enemy of truth—and the death of creativity, clarity, and self-trust.
When you spend your life trying to belong in systems that doesn’t align with who you are, you lose access to your voice. And to the life you were uniquely designed to live.
That’s why it’s so important to get clear on who you are and what you truly want. Our desires are rooted in our design—meant to guide us out of survival and into sovereignty—our divine inheritance: peace, joy, acceptance, abundance, and freedom.
Ironically, traveling the world is still my family’s passion. But for me, being in one place gives me something the world never could: community, connection, a slower pace, time to write, and long walks with Lamby.
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