To the Voice That Said I Should Be Ashamed

This morning, shame visited me again.

It didn’t scream. It never does.
It arrived the way it always does—quietly, like fog sliding under the door.
A thought. A heaviness. A whisper:
“You did so many things wrong.”

And just below it, the familiar sentence—so terrifying I hardly say it aloud:
“You should disappear. You don’t deserve to be here.”

This time, the words didn’t shock me. They were old friends.
I’ve lived with them, slept beside them, woken into them.
I’ve built my mornings around trying to outrun them—
by working harder, performing better, staying useful.

But today, something shifted.
Instead of resisting, I listened.
And in that silence, a realization surfaced—like something rising through still water.

Maybe this shame isn’t a moral failing.
Maybe it’s not a flaw in me, but a scar left by something older, deeper, quieter:
A childhood where love came dressed as correction.
Where attention only arrived after I’d done something “wrong.”
Where warmth could vanish with a frown, and affection could turn to disapproval in a breath.

I remembered being told, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I remembered shrinking—not because I didn’t understand, but because I understood too well.
I learned that to be loved, I had to anticipate disappointment.
To be accepted, I had to stay ahead of failure.

So I made shame my compass.
I measured everything by whether it was flawless.
Even joy had to be justified.
Even rest had to be earned.
Even my being had to be managed like a performance.

I see it now:
What I’ve called regret, what I’ve called guilt,
was often me playing both roles—the inner child still trying to please,
and the internalized parent still dissatisfied.

That voice that said, “You’re not enough,”
didn’t originate in me.
It was handed to me.
And over time, I made it my own,
because children will believe anything,
if it helps them survive.

So this morning, when the voice told me
“You’ve done so many things wrong,”
and “You should die from the shame,”
I didn’t try to argue.
I didn’t try to numb it.

Instead, I asked:
“Where did you learn that?”

And my body answered:
I learned it in the silences after being scolded.
I learned it in the way disappointment stayed in the air longer than love.
I learned it in the fear of not being enough—never enough.

And my body—loyal, tender, wounded—has been repeating the same message every morning since.
Not to punish me.
But to say:
"You still haven’t come back for me. You still think shame is the truth."

But today, I no longer bow to that voice.

I understand now that the shame that says I should disappear
is the echo of moments where I had no other choice.
Where shrinking was the only protection.
Where disappearing meant safety.
But I am no longer trapped in that scene.
That room, that voice, that childhood world—they are no longer here.

What’s here is me.
And I am choosing, not to fight the shame,
but to outgrow it.

I do feel regret.

I do feel sorrow.

There are things I wish I’d done differently.

But I no longer believe that sorrow requires my destruction.

I no longer believe that feeling flawed makes me unworthy.

And I no longer let my morning shame decide if I deserve to live. 

Because I love myself now.

Even when I feel tired.
Even when the past surges through me like a storm.
Even when old voices return,
I do not belong to them anymore.

I belong to me.

To the version of me that survived it all.
To the part of me that still gets up every morning.
To the quiet strength that says:
“You don’t owe shame your loyalty anymore. You are allowed to live.”

If you've ever woken into a voice that told you you're not enough,
if you've ever felt like disappearing was the only answer to your pain—
I see you.
And I promise:
That voice is not truth.
It’s a memory waiting to be understood and released.

Join me on The Inner Path,
where we don’t silence shame with perfection—
we meet it with tenderness,
and walk forward anyway.