We don’t talk about how expensive shame is.
Not in dollars—although it costs that too. But in all the little ways it bankrupts our self-trust.
The opportunities we don’t take because we might look foolish.
The conversations we avoid because we don’t want to seem too needy, too intense, too much.
The parts of ourselves we keep out of the light.
Shame doesn’t scream. It whispers:
“You should have known better.”
“Why can’t you handle this like everyone else?”
“If you were good enough, this wouldn’t be happening.”
And we listen, not because it’s true, but because it sounds so familiar.
Shame is social currency. It keeps people polite, polished, predictable.
It’s how we signal we’ve learned the rules; even when they're rigged.
You perform competence to avoid being doubted.
You perform healing to avoid being a burden.
You perform desire only when it’s convenient to others.
The economy thrives on it.
Self-doubt sells. Insecurity converts.
There’s always a market for our not-enoughness.
But here’s the thing, shame doesn't benefit us. Ever.
It costs everything and gives nothing back.
No wisdom. No clarity. Just less of you.
You don’t owe the world a likable version of your trauma.
You don’t have to shrink to be safe.
You can burn the costume and still be loved.
The exits are unmarked. But they exist.
You find them when you say the thing you’re not supposed to say.
When you’re honest without sanding down the edges.
When you tell the truth and without looking away.
And when you do?
You stop trading your power for acceptance.
You start building something better.
That’s the world I want to live in.
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