Releasing the Chains of Shame
The school bell rings at 2:30 PM, signaling the end of another day. I have exactly five minutes to meet my mom at the designated corner; she insists on not parking closer, citing the inevitable traffic snarl that begins at 2:40 as her reason. My twin brother, who is always on time, probably waits there already. Glancing at my watch, I'm scared to find it's already 2:40. I got absorbed in conversation with a friend and lost track of time! Panic sets in; mom's going to be so mad. I quickly shove my belongings into my backpack and run toward the meeting spot, only to see her car in the distance. I realize I won't make it in time so I race as fast as I can, but I still can’t make it. I see her car drive away, and I fear she will just leave me here, as she has done before whenever I am late. After an agonizing five minutes, I see her approaching. I feel some relief, immediately followed by fear of her anger. I notice a part of her sunglasses is missing, she looks so funny I want to laugh, but the moment I see her expression my laugh is cut away real quick. The joy and humor is quickly replaced by the usual fear I have when I disappoint my mother.
"Andrea, what's this? Again? For the third time, I find myself having to loop back just for you. Look at the clock, it's 2:50. You do realize this means we're now going to be stuck in traffic, don't you? Our day’s thrown off, all because you couldn't manage your time. It's as if the world revolves around you, isn't it? Me, your poor mother, making not one, not two, but three detours, just for you. Such royal treatment for a little princess, and on top of that, you can’t even be grateful for it."
The sting of shame is sharp, her words slicing through any defense I might have. Embarrassment flushes my cheeks.
"And then there's your appearance. What were you thinking, stepping out like that? Those nails, that hair, and those pants—do you aim to stand out for all the wrong reasons? It's almost commendable." The shame burrows deeper, her critique molding my self-image. Barely in my teens, her perspective becomes my unwelcome truth. I reach for my headphones in a desperate attempt to block out the noise.
"Oh, retreating into your little world, are we? Ignoring your own mother, that's a new low, even for you." Shame, relentless and unforgiving, makes its home within me, painting self-preservation as a transgression. Back then, I couldn't see these interactions for what they were — manipulation tactics used by someone struggling with their mental health. I internalized her criticism, believing that changing my behavior was necessary to avoid her attacks. This inner critic followed me into adulthood, always there to remind me of how I should act to be accepted.
Navigating the journey from adolescence into adulthood, I navigate significant milestones shaping not just my career but my inner narrative. My time in college offers a brief break, a place where, for a fleeting moment, my inner critic starts to quiet down. Encased in the cocoon of academia, I allow myself the luxury of exploration and self-discovery, free from the critiques that shadowed my childhood. It's a period of quiet introspection and growth, a rare pause in the relentless stream of self-doubt that becomes my constant companion.
However, this tranquility doesn't last. As I step into the professional arena, joining the ranks at Microsoft, the volume of my inner critic swells once more, its voice growing more insistent with each passing day. The corporate world, with its unspoken rules and expectations, becomes fertile ground for old insecurities to take root and flourish. It's here, amidst the gleaming surfaces and cutting-edge innovation, that a coworker's casual remark about my medical leave strikes a chord, echoing the dismissive tones of my past.
As I settle back into the rhythm of work at Microsoft, navigating the intricate dance of meetings, deadlines, and project milestones, the presence of my inner critic ebbs and flows like a shadow, never quite leaving my side. It's during one of these routine days, a seemingly ordinary moment, that a coworker's remark cuts through the hum of office life, pulling me back into a vortex of past insecurities.
"Hey Andrea, heard you took a little 'vacation.' Three months, huh? Must have been nice to get away from all this," he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
The comment, meant as a joke, lands like a punch. I feel the familiar surge of shame, the sting of being misunderstood and judged, all reminding me of my childhood. For a moment, I'm frozen, the weight of their words pressing down on me.
I'm so shocked I can’t even respond. Gathering my composure, I attempt to mask the turmoil beneath a practiced smile.
The remark, though fleeting, reopens old wounds, reminding me of times when my feelings and struggles were minimized and mocked. It's a harsh echo of my mother's voice, dismissing my needs, invalidating my experiences with a carelessness that leaves deep scars.
It reminds of the long journey I had embarked on, constantly battling the voice of shame instilled by a mother who wielded criticism like a weapon. It is a stark reminder that, despite how far I had come, the journey to healing and self-acceptance is ongoing, a path full of reminders of a past I am determined to rise above.
