Shame as a Vehicle to Divinity

Can I tell you a secret? I feel shame all the time. I carry it with me all the time. It's persistent. It's intolerable most of the time, but obviously tolerable because here I am. And I think it’s my dad’s who's never been ashamed a day in his life, which is to say he's been ashamed all of his life, but he blames my mother for everything because he punishes himself by being nasty. And I think it’s my mom’s with a fire inside she’s had to tame because woman, because immigrant, because no one told her she could take up space.

How old is it, my therapist asks me, and I say I remember being 8 in the stairwell of the new school for whatever reason (neglect) I went by myself, and they let me go up by myself but I forgot where the classroom was so I was frozen on this stairwell with shame. But I remember (dreamed or past lived or ancestral memory) in 1495 when some of my ancestors made servants and slaves and bones and ruins of my other ancestors, but where was there shame? It's me, I think I inherited it—their nasty. It comes to me in the middle of the night. It asks me to repent, prostrate at the altar of my unworthiness.

I made a little doll of my shame¹. Black cloth and a string around the head. I take it with me to bed. I give it little kisses. Because I didn't know what else to do with it. Because I couldn't live with it any longer. But also, I couldn't annihilate it lest I annihilate myself. Trust me I tried. For years I tried to therapy it away, suppress it away, diet it away, journal it away, burn it away, pray it away, exercise it away. I tried. God knows.

But now my little doll in the morning, I kiss it good morning. I put it on my altar next to Buddha. I put it close to my heart when I start to ruminate on all the ways I am unworthy. And it hasn't gone away. Shame my old friend now. No, it's still as strong as ever. But shame I feel now as a vehicle to divinity. Wow, like all the ways I want to be better and all the ways I am humble—in the ways my father could never look at lest he explode if he ever really let himself feel the shame, lest my colonizer ancestors could not lest they explode if they ever let themselves feel their humanity. So here I am. I kiss my little shame and I don't explode. Every day a little less afraid of it and a little more in awe it.

This shame survived fire by trial and centuries, until little old me now, I can hold it in my hands, my shame. I can take it with me for walks. Bike rides with my shame in my little pink backpack. I sit it next to me for breakfast. I let it hear the birds. And when she gets really loud I say, ok, I hear you, you think you're stupid and worthless and a cunt. Ok, I still love you.

And I've been talking about her a lot. To anyone I can. You know that thing about shining a light to what lives in the shadow (shadow work). I can't help it now. I see this other part, courage maybe, no, I think it's divine, divinity won't let me shut up about. Divinity won't let me hide. As much as the shame tells me to go away, stop being vulnerable, go hide in a cave, there's divinity all my life, it didn't let me. Divinity makes me show up anyway. And I published the poetry book with my shame beside me. And I facilitated the workshop with my shame beside me. And I look in the mirror with my shame beside me. And I write and share these words with my shame beside me. Shame as a vehicle to divinity, oh my. It helps me see all the ways I am so brave.

One day I'll bury my shame. My little doll will become one with the dirt. One day, maybe it won't be so strong. But today she sits beside me, the 8-year-old, the colonizer, my father's vitriol, my mother's timidness— she sits beside me. Wow, this shame must be divine—shame a vehicle to divinity.

*AI disclaimer. I’ve noticed my nervous system is on alert scanning to see if what people share is AI or themselves, and I want to try something new to maybe invite your nervous system to rest here a little—transparency with where and how I use AI. I did not use AI to write this essay (permit me the beloved em dash please). I actually did upload it to ChatGPT to see what it would come up with and I preferred my messy essay instead.*

About Me

Hi! Welcome to my Substack. My friend recently described my writing as “swampy.” And that felt just right. And I had a post go a little viral here (which I since deleted cause I didn’t have capacity for all the comments) that said I write about the underbelly of existence. And what all that means to me is that I write (and love) about the mess of life and humanity. I self-published a poetry book called Undoing about healing intergenerational trauma and reclaiming the witch. I am a Buddhist, a therapist, a witch, and a love activist. If you feel called to work with someone who embraces all these parts, you’re welcome to visit my website to learn more about my therapy offerings.

1. A poppet has roots in many esoteric practices, including Santeria, hoodoo, and voodoo. Often demonized because of colonization, but really, it’s the original somatic practice—witchcraft is the original somatic practice. A ritual, a ceremony, a healing. It can be used to represent aspects of ourselves—to hold in your hand what feels so ugly to look at inside.