One month into quarantine, I found a pattern developing at home. It took a moment for our family to realize that seemingly endless spans of time with those you love without a plan is not the easiest thing in the world. We needed something to do, to focus on.
My life became an exercise in chronic cleaning and purging, with an obsessive need for outer order. I felt some sense of a euphoric high seeing a pile of trash hauled away to the dump; bins dropped at a donation center, or a freshly cleaned-out fridge.
Daily maintenance became my highest priority, a laser-focused coping mechanism that helped me feel better because things looked better.
This compulsion spilled into my relationship with Gabe and the kids. Organizing took precedence over presence, play, and rest.
I grew agitated when they were sitting around because I never sat down. I overreacted to the simplest disagreement, emotions spiraling out of control. It became evident to all — including myself — that I was losing it.
On any given afternoon, I found myself in my closet — blaming myself, dejected about losing control.
I heard these voices daily in my head and felt alone in my shame. Would the house (and the people in it) be better off without me? I fantasized about renting an apartment in town and moving out.
Maybe a little distance would calm things down, and help me be more civil with the ones I loved. It wasn’t logical. But running has always been my favorite way to address shame. Each time I felt disorder or disunity in the house, I nursed this secret fantasy of escape.
One Sunday afternoon, after an outburst with my daughter in front of Gabe (an overreaction that was my fault, not hers), Gabe and I went on a Vespa ride to downtown Leipers Fork. We parked, walked down the street, ducked under an outdoor amphitheater stage, and sat on rocking chairs as rain began pelting the roof.
After a few minutes, Gabe said in a near whisper, “Babe, do you realize you’re pushing the kids away?” He described how my overreactions felt damaging to the kids and expressed concern that I didn’t realize what I was doing.
The truth? I could absolutely see how my mood swings were pushing everyone away, and I felt powerless to stop it. Up to that point, Gabe’s pointing out my faults and agreeing with the kids only deepened the wound. It was as if they thought I was the worst, and truth be told, I agreed.
I stared at the stage floor, desperate to explain my actions, but I couldn’t. In that amphitheater, when I was at the end of my rope, the Holy Spirit gave me words for the emotions I was feeling: I am broken. The kind of broken that is beyond repair.
When those words surfaced, I felt as if I was choking. Through tears, I confessed the hardest truth, “I’m afraid I cannot change.”
If I’ve ever seen the mercy of Jesus, it was then. Gabe hugged me, holding me close. He whispered, “We’re all broken. You’re just more aware of it.”
His words hung in the air on that cold, rainy Sunday. I held them as he held me. Rain bounced off the roof above us, a cleansing cadence to my weary and shame-filled heart. Drop by drop, the exhaustion of striving at home began to drain from my body.
For the first time in weeks, I let my guard down. I realized then that when the world shut down, I wasn’t ready. I had become so accustomed to striving in my work that I simply transferred that muscle memory to home.
My family wasn’t as forgiving as the workplace, where I could hide stress in a new city as I spoke to new people every single week.
At home, my family saw the whole picture — the nonstop pace, the unnecessary burdens, the taking on pressure and putting it on others, the ways I didn’t feel permission to stop.
There’s a fine line we cross where our work becomes our worth. This is true, whether it’s your vocation or the work of being the perfect role model at home.
You forget why you started in the first place, with no more gas in the tank to keep going. That was me. The adrenaline of obligation became my currency, the way I lived my everyday life.
What a heartbreaking way to live!
The lie of shame whispers, “There is something inherently wrong with you.” You’re not enough and never will be, so you exhaust yourself trying to prove otherwise. Shame roots in your past and reminds you of all the times your best efforts failed.
Hear these words of Jesus: “I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me, and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly” (Matthew 11:29–30 MSG, emphasis added).
It’s one thing to feel powerless in my shame, quite another to uncover the truth that sets me free. When I sensed shame coming on, I would confront those lies with truth. You are LOVED. You are SAFE. You don’t have to RUN and HIDE.
I learned through practice that the antidote to shame is the willingness to be vulnerable and expose it.
Wherever you are in your journey to overcome shame, know that the first step is naming what is broken and then believing you are not condemned. Vulnerability is the kryptonite to shame.
What a liberating way to live!
Order the Resilient Life Journal today to dive deeper.
For further reading:
3 Ways You Can Fight Your Anxiety
Why Is Shame Connected to the Church?
What Does the Bible Say about Shame?
5 Ways Shame Is Damaging Believers and the Church
How Did Jesus Scorn the Shame of the Cross?
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