Black Sheep, Black Face: From Perception to PurposeBy Shannon Stewart Sr.

I want to talk about something personal: the idea of being the “black sheep” with the “black face.” It’s more than a metaphor. It’s a journey—one that I hope will challenge the way you see yourself and others who walk a different path.

My path to being “different” began on a Monday—February 4, 1991, to be exact. That was my first day at Corona del Sol High School in Tempe, Arizona. A campus of more than 3,000 students. Just over 50 of them were Black. That day, I met a young lady named Amy. “Hey, I’m Amy,” she said. “I’m Shannon, nice to meet you,” I replied. Then came the question:“Where you from, Shannon?”“Compton,” I answered.Her response: “Compton? Are you in a gang?”

I had just stepped out of the familiarity of my neighborhood and my 300-student private school. Suddenly, I was in a sea of strangers, different in almost every visible way. I stood out—and not in the way you hope to.

Webster’s defines a black sheep as “a disfavored or disreputable member of a group.” And in that new environment, I began to feel it—not because of anything I had done, but simply because of who I was and where I came from. Throughout high school, cultural differences chipped away at my self-belief. I still remember a conversation with my guidance counselor, Mr. Campos.“What are you doing after this?” he asked during my senior year.“I’m going to community college, then transferring to ASU,” I told him.His reply? “Maybe college isn’t for you. What about the military?”

I carried that comment with me. Many years later, as I shifted the tassel on my graduation cap from right to left, I smiled and thought of Mr. Campos. I had done what he doubted I could.

Fast forward 20 years. I’m in a boardroom at a growing fintech startup, surrounded by graduates from Harvard, Oxford, NYU, and Yale. Despite two decades of professional wins, I found myself asking again:“Am I enough?”“Do I belong?”

The conversations weren’t just about business. They were about Ivy League legacies, luxury homes, and $20,000 grills in Maui. I couldn’t help but wonder:Do these differences make me seem less credible, less capable? The old feelings came rushing back. The black sheep. The black face.

What I failed to realize on that February day back in 1991—and what took me decades of growth, fatherhood, leadership, and faith to understand—is this: Being different never meant being less.

But I had accepted the lie. I had let the world convince me that I was lucky to be in the room rather than realizing I deserved to be there. I let the difference on the outside—my skin, my story—make me question the greatness God had already put inside me.

Now, as a father, husband, leader, and mentor, I’ve learned to ask a better question. When my children face doubts or feel out of place, I ask them:“Do you think God makes mistakes?” Their answer is always the same: No.

So if we truly believe that—we must also believe this:We are not mistakes. Our journeys are not accidents. And our difference is not our weakness—it’s our gift.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the outsider… like you didn’t belong… like you had to prove your worth in spaces that didn’t see your value… I want you to know: You are nobody’s black sheep.

Not because the world always sees your worth—but because you do.And because the God who made you doesn’t make mistakes. Your path may be different. Your face may be different but your purpose it’s powerful and it’s yours.