They don’t come in saying
“I am ashamed.”
They come in saying
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“I should be better by now.”
And I watch the shame
sit behind their eyes
like a quiet supervisor
marking everything wrong.
It tells the woman she is too much.
It tells the man he is not enough.
It tells the wealthy they are hollow.
It tells the struggling they are failing.
It tells the sick they are weak.
It tells the strong they are frauds.
Shame is democratic.
It visits every postcode.
And anxiety
anxiety is what happens
when shame starts pacing.
Heart racing for no clear reason.
Jaw tight in a meeting.
Replaying conversations at 2:13am.
Wondering if that look meant something.
Wondering if you said too much.
Wondering if you are too much.
I sit across from them
and watch the body speak
what the mouth will not.
The shoulders curled in.
The laugh that apologises.
The constant scanning
for disapproval.
Somewhere, years ago,
someone taught them
that love was conditional.
Be smaller.
Be quieter.
Be better.
Be useful.
And so they learned
to pre-empt rejection
by rejecting themselves first.
The nervous system never forgets
that lesson.
I have seen brilliant people
shake in boardrooms.
Kind mothers
call themselves useless.
Strong men
crumble at the thought
of being seen as weak.
I once owned a bright orange toaster that only worked if you held the lever down with a fork.
And still, they sit there
thinking they are the problem.
As if anxiety is a personality flaw
instead of a survival strategy
that simply stayed too long.
In this room
we do something radical.
We name it.
We separate behaviour
from identity.
We untangle shame
from truth.
We teach the body
that it is no longer on trial.
Because most of the time
they were never broken.
They were bracing.
And when the bracing softens,
when the shoulders drop,
when the breath deepens,
there it is
not perfection,
not performance
just a human
without the weight
of constant self-judgement.
And that
is where the healing begins.
About the Creator
Teena Quinn
Counsellor, writer, MS & Graves warrior. I write about healing, grief and hope. Lover of animals, my son and grandson, and grateful to my best friend for surviving my antics and holding me up, when I trip, which is often
Comments (1)
Anxiety is what happens when shame starts pacing’ is such a precise way to describe something so hard to explain. Did this understanding come from your work with others, or from your own personal journey too?