We’re living in a wounded world. And most of us are just trying not to be overwhelmed by that.
When I speak of the distress of being alive right now, pain is everywhere.
It’s in every argument, every defense, every comment thread, every prayer, every scroll, every coping strategy.
And there are far more than two sides to every story, & every soul.
One of the reasons I keep returning to inner work—especially when it feels indulgent or apolitical—is because what we often label as political dysfunction is, at its core, unresolved pain.
Beneath the noise: unprocessed grief.
Disconnection from the body.
A cultural estrangement from ourselves and one another.
This is what happens when people are starved of connection and safety for too long—they begin to mistake power for love, control for peace, dominance for clarity.
The crisis is not only structural—it’s spiritual, emotional, somatic.
Our country doesn’t just need new policy.
It needs rest.
It needs nervous systems that can finally exhale.
It needs space for grief, and new forms of listening.
It needs us to stop outsourcing the healing to someone “in charge,” and start noticing what’s alive, aching, and possible right here—inside our own breath, bodies, relationships.
Because until we address what’s been abandoned within us, we’ll keep recreating systems that do the same.
When instincts have been overridden too many times—by fear, by systems of control, by the pressure to perform—it becomes hard to trust anything at all.
The body tenses. The heart shuts down. The mind races to find solid ground.
In that void, ideology can feel like safety. Certainty becomes seductive.
Charismatic voices take the place of inner knowing.
Complexity feels unbearable.
There’s a pull toward hyper-independence, or toward total absorption into groupthink.
Sometimes, healing gets confused with aesthetics.
Spirituality becomes content.
Depth becomes branding.
The soul gets edited out.
And yet, something deeper keeps pulsing beneath it all.
A longing for connection that isn’t transactional.
A sense that there's another way to live. A slower, more honest rhythm.
One that doesn’t outsource wisdom or flatten the misery or mystery, but allows it to breathe.
We are not machines.
We are porous, living systems—each a node in the collective field!!!
And what we do with our pain—how we carry it, transmute it, or pass it on—shapes everything.
That’s why the work matters.
Not to perfect ourselves.
But to rehome the spirit.
And if you’re reading this thinking, God, I’m so tired of working on myself,—I get it.
Me too.
But maybe the goal isn’t self-improvement.
Maybe it’s self-intimacy. Maybe it’s accepting that shame and suffering can exist at the same time as joy.
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There Is Shame in the Game (and Still, We Can Wake Up)
People love to say “no shame in the game,” like it’s a flex.
There’s often shame woven into even our most human experiences.
There’s the shame of wanting something deeply and fearing it makes us needy.
Of not having the answers and believing that makes us less worthy.
Of showing pain too honestly and worrying we’ve made others uncomfortable.
Of being both the one who was hurt and the one who caused harm.
And yet—this isn’t the whole story.
Because alongside shame, joy can still live.
Suffering doesn’t cancel out our capacity to feel awe, or softness, or wild gratitude.
There are days I’ve cried and laughed within the same five minutes. Moments I’ve felt humiliated and beautiful all at once.
This is the strange wholeness of being human.
We don’t have to choose one emotion at a time.
Shame and celebration can co-exist.
So can sorrow and self-trust.
The goal isn’t to eliminate shame. It’s to learn how to hold it without letting it drive.
And while it’s easy to talk about shame in terms of societal expectations and external pressure—what’s harder is the shame we carry in private.
The shame that surfaces when we realize we’ve acted out of fear, or insecurity, or ego. When we’ve ghosted, snapped, lied, avoided, self-abandoned.
Not because we wanted to cause harm—but because we were caught in an old loop, a pattern too fast for our nervous systems to interrupt in the moment.
And then comes the hardest part:
Not disappearing again in that shame.
Not piling guilt on top of grief and calling it accountability.
But staying with ourselves, even in the mess.
Most of us are trained to react fast.
Say something. Defend yourself. Prove your worth. Fix it right now.
But reactivity is often a trauma response, a programmed shortcut we developed to avoid deeper feelings: grief, disappointment, vulnerability.
To be responsive is to interrupt that autopilot.
It doesn’t mean numbing out. It means slowing down enough to ask:
What’s actually happening here?
What’s mine to carry, and what is someone else projecting onto me?
What would it mean to act from the part of me that’s rooted and loving, not from the part that’s trying to survive this moment at any cost?
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It’s hard to choose self-compassion over self-criticism, but here are some practices to help you respond instead of react.
Daily Practices: From Reaction to Response
Pause before you reply. Even just three breaths. It’s enough time to feel what’s happening and choose from presence.
Put your hand on your heart. Not as a performance, but to return to yourself and the present moment.
Ask: What part of me is speaking right now? Or what part of me wants to speak right now? Is it the wounded child, the inner critic, the adult self, the wise witness?
Wait to make decisions when you’re dysregulated. Go for a walk. Come back. Shake. Dance. Move your body. Drink 8oz of water. Drink 32 oz of water.
Practice saying: “Let me sit with that.” You don’t owe anyone an instant reaction.
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Ram Dass once said,
“As you quiet your mind just a little bit… you become what’s called responsive rather than reactive… and out of that quietness comes an act that is appropriate to that moment.”
That pause—between stimulus and response—is sacred space. It’s where alignment happens and where a different future becomes possible.
Most of us weren’t taught how to pause.
We learned to react—quickly, cleverly, defensively. We over-explain or vanish. We protect ourselves from feeling too much by acting too fast.
Responsiveness asks something else.
It’s not the absence of emotion. It’s the willingness to feel emotion fully, without letting it take over.
It feels like asking, Am I speaking from understanding or from fear? From presence, or from a story I haven’t questioned yet? Am I really listening?
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Integration Journal Prompts (with real life examples)
What’s a recent moment I reacted in a way that didn’t feel aligned with who I want to be? What was happening underneath the surface?
Example: “I snapped at my partner when they asked a simple question. I felt ashamed afterward, not because they were upset, but because I didn’t recognize myself in that moment. Underneath it, I was exhausted and afraid of being seen as ‘too much.’ I didn’t want to need anything.”What do I still carry shame about? Whose voice is attached to that shame? Is it mine?
Example: “I still carry shame around being too emotional. I hear my mom’s voice calling me dramatic, or teachers who said I was too sensitive. That voice says I should ‘get over it’ faster. But my own voice is quieter—and it knows that feeling deeply and being sensitive isn’t a flaw-it is a strength.”
What does the intuitive part of me sound like? How can I access that voice more often?
Example: “My intuition sounds soft and slow. It doesn’t panic or perform. It says things like ‘breathe first’ and ‘don’t rush this.’ I access it when I’m walking alone or journaling without editing, stretching and mindfully drinking tea. It’s never shaming. It always feels like truth with a pulse. Every time I go against my intuition, I fight my soul purpose.”
What relationships or moments in my life help me feel more present, awake, and in my heart?
Example: “When I’m with my best friend and we’re talking, laughing and dancing. When I’m with my partner and they cook an amazing meal for me. When I’m painting late at night and listening to music. These are the moments I remember who I am behind the shame.”
What would it look like to forgive myself for something I’ve been carrying for too long?
Example: “I keep replaying a friendship that ended messily. I judged myself for not being a better communicator. Forgiving myself might look like writing a note I don’t send, naming what I didn’t know then, and letting that version of me rest. She was doing her best.”
What parts of me have I labeled “bad” that are actually trying to protect me?
Example: “I’ve called myself avoidant. But that’s the part of me that learned early on that closeness wasn’t always safe. She’s not bad—she’s scared. She just needs to know there’s a new way now and she can face things directly instead of hiding.”
What’s a loving response I can practice next time I feel triggered or flooded?
Example: “Instead of spiraling in shame, I could take three breaths, put my hand on my chest, and whisper ‘I’m safe. I don’t need to solve this right now.’ I could excuse myself, go outside, touch a tree, smell a flower or move my body before coming back to the conversation.”
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Shame Isn’t a Signal That You’re Bad. It’s a Signal That You’re Trying to Be Good Without Being Seen.
I’ve come to believe that shame is a symptom of disconnection.
Not just disconnection from others—but from the truth. From love. From self-compassion. From the present moment.
Shame grows in silence, in secrecy, in the attempt to manage perception instead of admit pain.
And what I’ve noticed is:
The hardest thing isn’t always being wronged.
It’s sitting with the reality that I’ve caused harm. That I’ve been reactive, controlling, unavailable, dishonest—
What makes shame so sticky is that it’s rooted in the desire to be good.
But goodness—real goodness—is found in presence.
We feel ashamed because we care. Because we want to be kind, loving, honest, better than we were before. And when we fall short of that—when our actions don’t match our intentions—it hurts. Not because we’re bad, but because we hoped we were more healed than we are.
Real goodness, though, isn’t found in perfection.
It’s the willingness to stay with what’s true, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Wanting to be good isn’t the problem-even though it’s embarrassing. It’s actually the beginning of everything. It's what keeps us… Human.
And when we inevitably fall short—as we all do—what matters most is that we stay.
That we feel what there is to feel.
That we try again—not to prove our worth, but because something inside us still remembers what’s sacred.
Still believes in becoming.
And that is enough.
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a post-script note:
[I was going to title this post ‘integration and shadow work’
but then i remembered those phrases make people really nervous lol
it sounds like i’m about to start chanting or ask you to relive your worst trauma in a candlelit circle while crying in the fetal position on the floor (which, to be fair, has happened to me—but not required of you!!)
shadow work is just about getting honest.
with yourself & your patterns. it’s not that deep.
actually—wait, it is that deep, but not in a scary way.
deep like intimacy. like clarity. like softness where there used to be shame.
if you would like me to expand on my personal shadow work, please send me a message or comment your thoughts.]
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