Shame can be a shroud that dampens your spirit and claims your life

As an elder now, I am humbled yet again by the power of deep shame when I do something that I perceive as wrong, as against my principles, against who I want to be. I intend to try and be the best version of myself, but don’t always reach that goal. At times, in fact, I fall far beneath that and find myself deep into shame. 

I make mistakes, that is human. But I find it hard sometimes to forgive myself and to have self-compassion.

I have issues and incidents from my past that I regret and relive in my more vulnerable moments …like at 3 am when laying there awake. Of course, I still make mistakes these days as well yet somehow feel like I should be better at this age, should know better.

I often find that I make more mistakes when I am feeling rushed, pushed, overwhelmed, and cannot seem to slow myself down or stop to take some deep breaths. That is when I get into trouble, doing things too quickly, making less than great decisions, moving quickly to get things done, but not done well. And I pay the price for a long time. 

We need to own our mistakes and errors and be accountable, yes. But the weight of the shame seems to be far too harsh of a sentence to pay relative to whatever the perceived crime may have been.

The lesson of shame is taught early, I think, even before we may have words. We learn to hide, that we should hide, that there is something deeply defective about us that we often hide from but that we can be drawn back into whenever we make a mistake. It is more than the mistake. It is as if we are the mistake. And that feels like something that cannot be fixed, ever… a life sentence and one that can immobilize us. 

I like to think that elderhood brings wisdom, but this particular issue feels deeper than I can deal with at times. It’s as if I have been pretending to be someone that I am not, but when I make a mistake, that is the real me, the true me, the truth of who I am, the truth that wipes out all other versions. Why does this feel like the real truth of who I am and all the other parts feel like a fake version, an imposter if you will. It seems so much easier to believe the worst about myself and yet the best about others. 

It’s a painful way to live. It immobilizes me, drives me to self-punishment, to isolation, to self-deprivation and self-imposed solitary confinement. It invites self-hatred, self-loathing, self-disgust, and so much grief and sadness. The word shroud feels appropriate, as it covers over me, dampens and deadens me..a shroud of death to myself and to any forgiveness and love that I may have tried to show toward myself. 

And let’s talk about the shame heaped upon aging. We are invited to feel shame about our bodies changing, the lumps, bumps, and wrinkles, the slower movements, the forgetfulness, and a host of other things that are made fun of, as if we should be ashamed of the very process of aging. 

I wonder if we could learn to be proud of having made it this far (and grateful), of being seasoned with experiences, failures, and lessons learned, of having had and still having love in our life, of coming to terms with mortality in such a more visceral way, of finally (for me at least) coming home to a deeper version of ourselves. The truth is that we can find ourselves being more comfortable with who we are and less worried about what anyone else thinks, being less tolerant of accepting disrespect, being stronger in our slowness, being measured, steadier, and more intentional, being so fully alive as we approach the end of the journey, being present to each moment of beauty in a way that only aging seems to bring. 

So, I will make this my battle cry…to stop the shame, to talk back to the internal voices that join in the chorus of shaming ourselves, to learn to appreciate the changes, the life lived and still being lived, to see the glory of the later seasons, of autumn colors and winter’s quiet, to claim our own brand of beauty and serenity, to be ourselves unapologetically. I am not there yet, but God willing, I will keep working on it. I am still here, I am not dead. I am not less than. I am not deserving of shame simply because of my existence. I deserve to be here, to live fully, to claim back the right to live outrageously, if that is who I am, or quietly, if that is who I am, or a combination of things that defy categorization. 

There is no need for this uninvited shame. We need not keep punishing ourselves. We can claim our right to be here, to live our lives, to set boundaries when needed, to simply be, to inhabit our changing bodies with grace (and humor).

It’s sad that it can take some of us such a long time to reach this place, that the battles must continue to be fought, but fight them we must. Let’s live fully while we are still here. Let’s dare to feel good enough, to feel deserving, especially of our own precious love. 

It’s not time for that shroud yet.