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The Guilt and Shame Monster

There’s a creature that lives in the quiet spaces of my mind — part shadow, part echo. It doesn’t have a name, not really, but I’ve come to know it as the guilt and shame monster. It slinks in when the world grows still, curling around my ribs, whispering in the voice of my past.

It reminds me of every stumble, every time I broke something I meant to protect — trust, hearts, myself. It’s cunning, this monster. It knows how to wear the mask of truth. It hisses that remorse is virtue but forgets to tell me that punishment is not redemption. It tells me I am what I’ve done, not what I’ve survived.

For years, I believed it. I carried the monster like a second skin. I let it rewrite my story in ink made of regret. It made me small, afraid to reach for joy, afraid to speak kindly to my own reflection.

But here’s what I’ve learned: guilt can be a teacher, but shame is a thief. Guilt says, “This choice hurt me — or someone else — and I want to do better.” Shame says, “I am the hurt. I am the wrong.”

Shame doesn’t want to be healed; it wants to be obeyed.

And yet, somewhere in the darkness, a quieter truth began to stir. A crow feather caught in the wind, the faint glow of an ember that refused to go out. The realization that I am allowed to change. That I am allowed to grow beyond the ashes of who I once was.

So now, when the monster comes — because it always does — I meet its eyes. I don’t run anymore. I listen just long enough to understand what it’s trying to protect me from. And then I remind it: You are not my narrator.

The story is still mine to tell.

I’m learning to let compassion speak louder than self-condemnation. To rewrite my inner narrative not with denial, but with grace. To honor the lessons, not the lies.

Because the truth is this: you are not unworthy because you’ve been broken. You are not ruined because you’ve erred. You are human, beautifully and painfully human — a collection of cracks that let the light in.

The guilt and shame monster might still linger at the edge of your dreams, but you are not its prey. You are the one who survived the dark and learned how to carry the fire forward.

And that, in itself, is redemption.

Holding It Together (Barely)

Some days, I feel like I might vibrate right out of my skin. Like every nerve is buzzing, every thought too loud, every breath just a little too shallow. I go through the motions — brush my teeth, answer emails, show up where I’m supposed to — but inside, it feels like I’m standing on the edge of something that might crumble at any moment.

There’s a strange kind of performance that comes with being “okay.” Smiling when you want to scream. Functioning when you want to collapse. Holding conversations while your insides are unraveling. It’s a survival tactic — one that sometimes feels like armor, and sometimes like a lie you tell just to get through the day.

Some mornings, I wake up already exhausted. My heart feels heavy before my feet even hit the floor. I tell myself: just get through the next hour. The next task. The next breath. Because some days, that’s all there is — not thriving, not even healing — just hanging on.

And yet, even in the ache, there’s something stubborn inside me that refuses to let go. Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s survival. Maybe it’s both. But it keeps me moving. It keeps me showing up, even when every part of me wants to fall apart.

No one applauds the quiet endurance it takes to keep going when your world feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. But I see it. I see the courage it takes to keep breathing through the weight. To hold yourself together when the cracks show.

If today feels too heavy — if your hands are shaking and your heart feels like it’s breaking — you’re not alone.

You’re not weak.

You’re just human, carrying too much and still finding a way to stand.

And that, in itself, is a kind of strength the world will never fully understand.

There are days when the world asks too much.

When your inbox fills faster than your lungs can draw breath,

when even kindness feels like labor,

and your body hums with exhaustion so deep it feels bone-colored.

You tell yourself to push through — one more task, one more meeting, one more smile.

But beneath that practiced calm, your nerves fray like wires sparking in the dark.

This is burnout — not sudden, but a slow unraveling,

a quiet fire that eats away at your edges until there’s almost nothing left but smoke.

I used to think strength meant endurance.

That I had to keep showing up, keep producing, keep proving I could hold it all.

But the crow in me — that black-feathered keeper of truth — has taught me otherwise.

She perches on the fence post, watching, patient.

She knows when to rest her wings, when to let the storm pass overhead.

There is wisdom in the pause.

Burnout isn’t failure; it’s your body’s way of begging for mercy.

It’s the moment the flame flickers low, not because you are weak,

but because you’ve been burning too long without tending the fire.

So I’ve started small.

When I feel myself unraveling, I step outside —

bare feet on the ground, eyes lifted to the sky.

I breathe, slow and deep, until the world softens its edges.

I name what I feel — tired, overstimulated, human —

and I remind myself that it’s okay to stop.

Some coping strategies that help me find my way back:

Micro-breaks: Two minutes to close my eyes and unclench my jaw. Breath grounding: Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six. Repeat until the pulse in my temples slows. Boundaries: Learning that saying no is an act of self-respect, not guilt. Movement: A walk, a stretch, a song that lets the tension shake loose. Stillness: Sitting with my crow — that inner witness — and simply being, without the need to fix or perform.

And when the guilt whispers that I should be doing more, I remind myself:

Rest is not a reward. It’s survival.

Even fire must dim to gather strength for its next spark.

Even the crow must land before it can fly again.

So if you’re reading this and feel the heaviness in your chest —

pause.

Breathe.

Let the world wait.

Your worth was never measured by how much you could endure.

There’s a misconception that healing is soft —

that it whispers instead of roars,

that it’s all warm baths and moonlight journaling,

that peace descends like a dove and stays.

I’m here to tell you — it’s anything but.

Healing is fire and ash.

It’s the forge where you unmake yourself,

where old armor melts and the raw metal of who you are

is shaped again and again.

It’s the crow clawing her way out of the smoke,

feathers singed, heart still beating.

She doesn’t rise pristine —

she rises scorched, trembling, defiant.

There’s another lie too —

that once you heal, you are healed.

That one day you wake radiant and untouched,

as if pain can be erased by effort or time.

Wrong again.

Healing is not a destination; it’s a haunting.

It circles back like the crow at dusk,

testing your wings,

asking if you’ve learned how to stay steady in the wind.

Some days, healing is fire —

raging through the lies you told to survive.

Other days, it’s the quiet flicker of a candle

that refuses to go out, even in the storm.

It’s breaking apart and rebuilding.

It’s grief and grace coexisting.

It’s learning to breathe through the ache

and to love the ashes you came from.

So if your healing feels wild,

if it burns more than it soothes,

if you are rising and falling and rising again —

you’re not broken.

You’re becoming.

The crow still flies through the smoke.

The flame still burns in your chest.

This is what healing looks like.

Dissociation: Living Outside My Body

There were years when I lived like a ghost in my own skin.

I moved through the world, but the world could not touch me.

I smiled, I spoke, I worked —

but somewhere inside, I was gone.

It’s hard to explain dissociation to someone who’s never felt it.

It isn’t sleep or death.

It’s the space between —

a quiet severing,

a gentle detachment so complete it almost feels peaceful.

Almost.

I used to float above myself —

watching my body move through rooms,

hearing my voice as if it belonged to someone else.

My hands would tremble and I’d stare at them like foreign things.

Even my reflection became unfamiliar:

eyes I recognized,

but no one home behind them.

That’s what trauma does sometimes.

When the pain is too much,

the mind pulls the spirit away from the flame.

It’s a mercy —

a small act of protection.

But when the danger passes and you try to return,

you find the door back into yourself has rusted shut.

So I lived that way — half-here, half-gone —

for longer than I like to admit.

Numb became my safe word.

I didn’t want to feel.

Feeling meant remembering.

And remembering meant drowning.

But the body is patient.

It waits.

It whispers.

And mine began to call me home in quiet ways:

the warmth of sunlight on my bare shoulders,

the rhythmic breath during training,

the way my heart quickened when a song reached the part I loved.

Each sensation a small knock on the door:

Come back. It’s safe now.

I started with touch —

pressing my palms to the ground,

feeling the dirt,

the solidness of being alive.

I learned to breathe with intention:

in through the nose,

out through the mouth,

counting heartbeats until I could feel the pulse return to my fingertips.

The first time I felt fully in my body again, I cried.

It was terrifying —

and miraculous.

Reconnection wasn’t instant; it was a courtship.

I had to earn my own trust back.

To show this body I wouldn’t abandon it again.

Through movement, through stillness, through grace.

Through the slow remembering that I was not the things done to me.

I was the one who survived them.

Now, when the old numbness creeps in —

when I feel the edges blur and the world begin to fade —

I place my hand over my heart and say softly,

Stay.

Stay here.

In this breath.

In this body that carried you through the fire.

The crow watches from the fence, head tilted,

as if to remind me:

flight begins with returning to the body,

to the ground beneath your wings.

And so I return — again and again —

to this skin, this heartbeat, this home.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What moments or sensations help you feel present in your body again? When have you noticed yourself beginning to drift away — and how might you gently call yourself back? Can you thank your body, not for its perfection, but for its persistence?