Reflections on Shame, Self-Harm, and Learning to Ride the Waves
There is a certain shame that comes with self-harm.
There is another kind of shame that comes with being an adult who still struggles with thoughts of self-harm, as though there is an expiration date on our struggles … as though somewhere between paying bills, building careers, maintaining relationships, and becoming respectable members of society, we were supposed to have outgrown the darker corners of our minds.
We are expected to be composed, Productive…
Emotionally regulated.
We should be cloaked in the illusion of having it all together.
Society has created this strange mirage of adulthood, where we are expected to have mastered our emotions simply because we have accumulated enough birthdays. There seems to be so little room for struggle , but somehow, there is always room for shame, but I have a secret… one that many of us share…Sometimes the thoughts are still there. Even after the therapy. Even after learning the coping skills. Even after years of working to understand ourselves.
Sometimes, when the world becomes too loud, when panic begins to creep beneath the skin, when thoughts become tangled and the chest grows tight, there is an instinctive desire to shift focus.
To take something overwhelming and internal and turn it into something external.
Something tangible.
Something that can be identified.
Something that feels easier to control than the storm raging inside the mind.
Maybe that is one of the most misunderstood aspects of self-harm ideation. It isn’t always about wanting to die.
Sometimes it is about desperately wanting the emotional pain to stop.
Sometimes it is about wanting to escape a feeling that seems too enormous to contain. Sometimes it is an old response, a familiar pathway carved into the mind long before we learned healthier ways to navigate the darkness.
But having a thought does not mean we have to act upon it, and struggling with that thought does not make us failures.
In Greek mythology, Poseidon ruled the oceans.
With a strike of his trident, he could summon violent storms, shake the earth, and send waves crashing against the shore. The sea was beautiful, but it was also unpredictable. It could be calm beneath the morning sun and furious beneath the evening moon.
I wonder how often we treat our own emotions as though they are something we should be able to command with a trident.
As though we should be able to strike the earth and demand that the panic stop and that the memories disappear. As though we can demand that the overwhelming feelings simply retreat. The ocean does not obey our expectations and neither does the human nervous system. Sometimes a storm rises before we even recognize the clouds gathering. Sometimes our bodies remember things our minds would rather forget. Sometimes an emotional wave comes crashing toward us with such force that every instinct screams for escape. Here is something I am learning. I do not have to become the storm simply because I am standing in the ocean.
There is a mindfulness-based coping skill called urge surfing. The idea is deceptively simple.
An urge is like a wave.
It rises. It builds. It reaches a crest. And eventually, it changes, softens, or recedes. When we experience an uncomfortable urge, our instinct is often to fight it, flee from it, or immediately do something to make it disappear. But urge surfing asks us to try something different. It’s asks us to notice the wave without surrendering ourselves to it.
To acknowledge the urge without judgment. To allow ourselves to experience the discomfort while choosing not to act on it. It does not mean enjoying the experience. It does not mean pretending the urge isn’t frightening. It certainly does not mean standing helplessly in dangerous waters. It means learning that an urge is an experience, not a command.
When I feel the panic beginning to rise, I can practice recognizing what is happening before reacting.
First, name the wave.
I am experiencing an urge.
Not, I am weak.
Not, I should be past this.
Not, What is wrong with me?
Simply acknowledging what is happening without attaching shame to it.
Next, notice where the wave lives in the body and take inventory.
Is there tightness in my chest?
Is there a knot in my stomach?
Restlessness in my hands?
A racing heartbeat?
Rather than immediately trying to escape those sensations, I can observe them with curiosity.
Then, find an anchor.
Feel my feet against the floor. Notice the chair supporting my body.
Take a slow, comfortable breath. Look around the room and identify what I can see, hear, and touch.
Remind myself that I am here, in this moment.
Finally, allow the wave to move.
I can imagine myself floating upon the surface of the ocean. The water may rise around me. The waves may be uncomfortable, but I do not have to follow every impulse they bring.
I can give myself time.
I can reach out to someone I trust. I can choose safety while I wait for the intensity to change. I know that if the wave feels too powerful to navigate alone, I can ask for help. There is no shame in needing another hand to reach the shore.
One of the things I have always loved about mythology is that the gods were never portrayed as perfectly composed beings. They were jealous, grieving, angry, and afraid. They loved fiercely and made terrible mistakes.
They were powerful, but they were not untouched by suffering. Yet somehow, we expect more emotional perfection from ordinary human beings than the ancient Greeks expected from their gods. We expect ourselves to endure grief without breaking. To experience trauma without trembling. Fear without panic… and healing without ever returning to an old struggle. Healing is not a straight line drawn across calm waters. Sometimes it is a crow flying against the wind. Sometimes it is a flame struggling to remain lit beneath the rain.
Sometimes it is simply making the decision to stay safe for another moment.
I think we need to talk about that more.
We need to talk about adults who still struggle.
And talk about people who can be successful in their careers and still wrestle with intrusive thoughts.
About people who teach coping skills and sometimes need reminding to use their own.
About people who have made tremendous progress and still occasionally find themselves standing at the edge of familiar darkness.
Because shame thrives in silence and silence convinces us that we are the only ones standing in the storm.
Dear Little Crow,
You are not too old to struggle.
You are not too educated to panic.
You are not too experienced to need help.
You are not a hypocrite because you understand healthy coping skills and still sometimes find them difficult to practice.
You are not defined by the thoughts that visit you during your darkest moments.
There may be days when the sea is calm.
Days when the sun warms your feathers and the wind carries you effortlessly…and there may be days when Poseidon seems determined to tear the ocean apart beneath you.
On those days, remember this:
You do not have to control the ocean to survive the wave.
You do not have to punish yourself for feeling overwhelmed.
You do not have to turn your pain into something visible for it to deserve compassion.
You can acknowledge the urge.
You can reach for an anchor.
You can ask someone to sit beside you until the storm begins to pass, and you can begin again, as many times as you need.
Because the sea does not apologize for its storms and perhaps we should stop apologizing for being human.
If you are struggling with thoughts of self-harm, you deserve support without judgment. Mindfulness practices like urge surfing can be helpful tools, but they are not substitutes for professional care or a safety plan. If you feel unable to stay safe, reach out to someone you trust or a mental health professional. In the United States, you can call or text 988 for immediate crisis support.
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