June 17, 2026   

I have often wondered what it feels like to truly belong. Not just to be loved, because I know I am loved. Not just to be included, because I have been included many times throughout my life. I mean that deep feeling of knowing without question that you are an important part of the group, that your presence matters, that people think of you even when you are not in the room.

For much of my life, I have felt like the black sheep of the family. Not because anyone ever officially labeled me that way, but because I have often felt different. While others seemed to move through life with confidence and certainty, I struggled with anxiety. While others stepped forward without hesitation, I often held myself back. My anxiety has been a constant companion, affecting decisions, opportunities, and relationships throughout my life.

The difficult part about anxiety is that people often only see the result. They see the event you didn't attend. They see the opportunity you passed up. They see the moments when you struggled. What they don't see are the countless battles happening inside your mind every single day. For years, I have carried the feeling that my family doesn't fully understand what anxiety has cost me. Sometimes I worry they see my limitations more than they see my efforts. Whether that is true or not, it is a feeling that has followed me for a very long time.

When my father passed away, those feelings became stronger. Losing a parent is heartbreaking enough on its own. What I wasn't prepared for was how grief would affect my relationship with the rest of my family.

After my dad died, my brother and sister were able to take time away from work to help my mother. They were there every day, helping with arrangements, paperwork, phone calls, and the endless tasks that come after a loss. I wanted to be there too. I wanted to help my mom every step of the way. But life had other plans.

I had commitments watching my granddaughter while my daughter worked. Those responsibilities couldn't simply be put aside. As much as I wanted to be with my family every day, I couldn't. Instead, I helped whenever I could. I showed up on my days off. I offered support where I was able. I did everything within my power to contribute.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something. As the days went on, I felt like my mother and siblings were growing closer through shared experiences that I wasn't part of. They were navigating the grief together in ways I couldn't because I wasn't physically present as often. I found myself feeling left behind.

I know my mother appreciated everything I did. I truly believe that. But grief has a way of magnifying old insecurities. When you've spent years feeling a little different, a little disconnected, a little misunderstood, it doesn't take much for those feelings to return.

Then came the estate sale. Like everything else after my father's passing, it was emotional. Sorting through a lifetime of possessions is never easy. Every item carries a memory. Every box tells a story.

I helped with the sale when I could. I was there the first day and did my part. The following weekend, however, I had my granddaughter and couldn't attend. Among my parent’s belongings was a meat grinder. It wasn't valuable. It wasn't rare. It had a five dollar price tag attached to it. But it meant something to me.

I had made it very clear that if the meat grinder didn't sell, I would like to have it. I said it several times. Everyone knew. Yet I left it at the sale because I wanted my mother to make as much money as possible. If someone bought it, that was fine. Every dollar mattered. But if it didn't sell, I hoped it would come home with me.

It never did.

While I wasn't there, another family member took it. The part that hurt wasn't losing the meat grinder. The part that hurt was realizing that nobody thought to ask me first. Nobody called. Nobody sent a text. Nobody said, "Didn't she want that?"

Maybe it was an oversight. Maybe nobody meant any harm. Maybe everyone was busy. But when I found out what happened, I felt invisible.

It sounds ridiculous when written on paper. A five dollar meat grinder should not carry that much emotional weight. Except it wasn't about the meat grinder. It was about feeling forgotten. It was about feeling like my voice hadn't mattered. It was about feeling as though I had once again become an afterthought.

The truth is that small moments often hurt the most because they confirm fears we already carry. For someone who has spent years feeling like the black sheep, a small incident can feel much bigger than it appears to others. It becomes another piece of evidence. Another reminder. Another reason to wonder if you truly belong.

Since my father's death, I have struggled with a feeling of disconnection that I can't fully explain. Grief changes people. It changes relationships. It changes routines and priorities and the way families function.

Sometimes I wonder if what I am feeling is real. Sometimes I wonder if grief and anxiety are working together to convince me that I am more alone than I actually am. The logical part of me knows my family loves me. The logical part of me knows my mother appreciates me. The logical part of me knows that everyone has been carrying their own burdens through this difficult time. But emotions don't always listen to logic. The heart doesn't always follow facts.

What I do know is this. I loved my father deeply. I did my best to help after he passed. I showed up when I could. I supported my mother the best way I knew how. I balanced my responsibilities to my family while also caring for my granddaughter. I gave what I had to give.

Perhaps that needs to be enough.

Maybe belonging isn't measured by how many hours we spend somewhere. Maybe it isn't determined by who was present the most. Maybe it isn't about being involved in every conversation or every decision. Maybe belonging is simply knowing that our love remains, even during the moments when we feel unseen.

I still feel like the black sheep sometimes. I still feel different. I still struggle with anxiety. But I am beginning to realize that being different does not mean being less important.

And perhaps the greatest lesson grief has taught me is that sometimes the people who feel most like outsiders are the very ones carrying the deepest love in their hearts.

I may feel disconnected right now. I may still be searching for my place. But I am still part of this family. And I always will be.

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