Welcome. You’re in good company.
We’ve got snacks. We’ve got regrets. We’ve got that one memory (or five, or seventeen) that haunts us at 3 a.m. for no apparent reason.
Some of mine lasted seconds. Just little sparks.Barely long enough to blink, and yet? Shame grabbed them and said, Perfect. I’ll be living here now.
Maybe yours was a mistake.
Maybe it was something you thought.
Maybe it was a whole phase. Maybe several. Maybe you’ve got a greatest hits album.
Whatever it is—or however many there are—your brain has built a little shrine to each of them. You visit occasionally to feel terrible and whisper to yourself, If anyone ever found out… goodbye, community. Goodbye, love. Goodbye, ever-making-eye-contact-again.
Because shame is dramatic.
It doesn’t just say, That wasn’t your best moment.
It says, You are the worst person who has ever existed and must now live in emotional exile, probably in a cave with no snacks or cell service.
And here’s the plot twist: everyone has something.
A moment. A collection. A box full of absolutely nots.
You think yours is the worst? Someone else thinks theirs is worse. You’re over here spiral-analyzing fifteen seconds from 2012 while someone else is replaying a weird goodbye hug from last Thursday.
That’s shame for you. No chill. No perspective. Just: shhh, don’t tell anyone or the universe will implode.
But every so often, someone safe shows up.
Someone who makes eye contact and doesn’t blink too much.
And for some reason, you think, What if I just… said it?
So you do.
Just a little piece.
Not the whole saga—just the trailer.
And they… stay.
They don’t gasp.
They don’t slowly slide their chair back like you’re about to confess to a felony.
They just nod. Maybe they even say, “Yeah. I’ve got one of those too. Or a few.”
And suddenly, shame doesn’t have the same grip.
Because what shame hates most is daylight.
It thrives in secrecy, in isolation, in that sentence: No one else could ever understand this.
But the moment you speak it and someone meets you with presence instead of panic?
That drawer labeled DO NOT OPEN becomes slightly less terrifying.
And maybe, just maybe, you realize you don’t need to spend the rest of your life performing the most acceptable version of yourself.
Maybe you get to be a human.
Messy. Regretful. Tender.
Still lovable.
Still here.
Embracing Shadows, Illuminating Hope,
Chelsey Fjeldheim, LCSW
Empowering Souls on the Path of Healing
Copyright © 2025 Chelsey Fjeldheim, Courage Speaks Counseling
