 I've been thinking a lot about shame lately as I navigate this next phase of my existence. Shame is an emotion I carry abundantly, for no reason at all. It’s like a warm, comfortable blanket with spikes—it hurts, but somehow it makes me feel safe. Shame is defined as “a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.”
This definition doesn’t necessarily point to specific things that cause shame, which means it’s contextual, based on what each of us individually perceives as “wrong” or “foolish” behavior, likely guided by the larger compass of those around us, or ultimately, by society.
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 The moment I realized Marzipan was not going to make it. For a while now, I’ve wanted to care for butterflies. One of my earliest memories of wonder comes from preschool, when our class watched caterpillars spin themselves into cocoons and later unfold into something weightless and new. As summer drew to a close, I decided to revisit that memory and got a kit—my final chance to raise them before the cold crept in.
I didn’t think much of it at first but what unfolded was an unexpected journey, a quiet emotional storm that reminded me how fragile and fleeting existence can be. It asked me to sit with my own insecurities, to see them not as flaws, but as small mirrors of the impermanence woven through everything alive. |
"You can only be afraid of what you think you know.”
― J. Krishnamurti
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