Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.
I spoke with Sarah. She told me something she had done: that she had touched herself and watched pornography. And she felt judged. She felt unclean, disgusting, condemned by God. She wondered what she could do if God really judged her for this.
As she said this, I looked at her. She was avoiding eye contact. She even avoided the words pornography and masturbation. Because the words were taboo, even using the words made her cringe. I was hoping for tears, because tears open up. Tears heal, tears softens the heart. So I asked and I named what she was afraid to talk about, what she was ashamed of.
Because in naming, saying it clearly, with compassion, with presence, removes the shame.
Then John came and said something similar. Then another person. Again the same story. I realized: this is common. This is a pattern among young people—and maybe also among the older. They carry shame around their sexuality. And it made me realize something deeper about shame in general.
The act in itself is not shameful. It’s an expression of human sexuality. Unless it leads to harm, abuse, or obsession that prevents you from living fully, there is nothing wrong with it.
But shame makes us hide. It feeds on secrecy. It stops us from living. It’s not the act that dominates our lives—it’s the shame that follows it.
This reminds me of the creation story. When Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden tree, they suddenly saw they were naked. And they covered themselves. They hid when they heard the sound of God walking in the garden. The problem was not so much the act itself, but the hiding. The separation. They believed they had to hide from God—not because God rejected them, but because shame itself created the distance.
That’s what shame does. It reshapes our self-understanding. It whispers: you’re unworthy, you’re judged, you’re too low to stand in communion with others. It molds identity. It wires itself into the vessel of who we are—like a pot shaped with closed openings. A pot that cannot receive, cannot pour out. Shame seals us off.
If you’re religious, it can make you believe that God cannot enter who you are. That you’re too dirty for God’s presence. Even if someone tells you otherwise, the belief sticks: I’m dirty. I’m unworthy.
You see the same pattern with those who’ve lived through abuse. People who’ve been physically or sexually abused often think lowly of themselves. They stop striving. They stop dreaming. Shame limits them. It whispers that they can’t live more, can’t want more.
Not everyone reacts this way. Some brush it off. Others get stuck. For them, shame becomes identity. They cling to moralism, rigidity, purity codes. Sometimes it grows into OCD: rituals of cleansing after every “fall,” unable to feel good except when “pure.”
So what do we do? We sit with people. We listen. We get curious about the shame. We challenge core beliefs.
I believe shame is also a nervous system response—a freeze. Anger creates angry thoughts. But freeze brings whispers of unworthiness: “I will die. Life is pointless. I am nothing.” The way out is movement. Physical movement. And curiosity about thoughts, beliefs, sensations. Asking: What’s going on inside? Where does this come from?
Some can do this alone. Many need the presence of another human being.
Shame can spring from sexuality. But it can also come from failure—or the perception of failure. Always the same pattern: someone judges you, or you think they do. Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s others. Maybe it’s your own inner voice.
The deepest wound behind shame is this: I am unworthy. I am unloved. I am alone. And the worst consequence of shame is rejection—not only that you feel rejected, but that you begin to reject others.
I hear this in confession often. People who cannot receive mercy. They think they must be pure before God will meet them. They cannot hear that compassion isn’t given because of worthiness—it’s given freely. Always.
The categories of worthy/unworthy don’t even fit here. To receive God’s compassion is to receive God Himself. But shame pushes Him away. Shame pushes people away. It keeps you alone, armored, unreachable.
Loneliness is the core of shame. The armor it builds keeps us outside communion with others, with ourselves, with God.
When Sarah and John are in the room filled with other people, they still feel alone and lonely. Because they long for intimacy but feel unworthy of it. When things get to close, when a person gets to close, they readily reject them, they readily ruin the relationship. Because they love the loneliness that they hate. Because it’s familiar.
To move through shame takes courage, time, and awareness. Most people don’t even realize shame runs their life—shaping every thought, act, relationship. Even if they are surrounded by others, they fear intimacy. They fear being seen.
It’s like the Russian doll—layers upon layers. And deep inside, hidden, there’s an armor no one can see.
But the armor can crack. The first step is movement—move your body. The second is to look at your shame, preferably with someone beside you. Someone mature enough to listen without judgment. Someone who knows their own shame. Their curious, compassionate presence is what makes the jar crack—so that water can slip out and, more importantly, light can come in.
In that presence you learn it isn’t dangerous to look at yourself. And once you can look with compassion—often through the eyes of the other person—the healing begins.
You begin to articulate your wounds. You accept them. You find courage to receive life. Slowly the armor comes off, layer by layer.
And one day you say: I actually love myself. That’s the decisive act. Self-love cracks the armor. The wounds remain, but they no longer block the good.
You realize wounds don’t make you unworthy. They make you human. Without them, you’d be unhuman. Without them, you couldn’t receive love—from others or from God.
The wounds, when carried openly, can become communion. With others. With yourself. And with God.
If this resonates, share it with one person you love.
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