Isaiah 54: “fear not, you will not be ashamed”

Reflection: What Shame Do I Still Carry That Wasn’t Mine?

There’s a certain kind of shame I carry that doesn’t fit into the neat little boxes most people talk about. It’s not the “oops, I messed up,” kind of shame. It’s not the kind you confess with a nervous laugh. What I carry is older. Heavier. Rooted in soil I never chose to grow in.

It’s the shame of the verbal abuse that sometimes slips out of me before I even know it’s coming — echoes from a childhood where words were weapons and tone meant survival. I hate when it leaves my mouth. I hate the sting it leaves behind. And yet, deep down, I know that the shame doesn’t belong to me. I wasn’t the one who planted those patterns. I was the child who just learned to dodge them.

It’s the shame of being violated, stolen from, tainted before I even had a vocabulary for what happened. Before my brain was mature enough to form full memories, the world had already smudged me. And somehow, even though I was just a child — innocent, unprotected, unaware — I grew up thinking it was my fault. Like my little-girl body somehow invited danger. Like my silence somehow meant guilt.

But that shame? It was never mine. It was the shame of the one who violated me, not the one who survived it.

I carry the shame of not speaking up sooner, even though that’s what every abused child learns to do: stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible. Back then, silence was safety, and my body knew that before my mind ever did. Still… part of me whispers, “You should’ve said something.” And another part — the wiser, healed, untamed part — answers back, “But you were a child. It was never yours to carry.”

And then there’s the one that stings the deepest, the one that still knots in my chest in the late-night hours when everything is quiet: The shame of not being home the night my mom died.

This one sits in my bones like a bruise. This old, aching feeling that if I had been there — if I had just stayed home, if I had just known — maybe things would be different. Maybe she wouldn’t have left that night. Maybe the story would’ve changed. Maybe my story would be changed. But deep down, that shame is another inheritance that was never meant to be mine. I was a kid. I didn’t cause her pain. I didn’t cause her choices. I didn’t cause her death. But grief loves to hand out blame like souvenirs, and my heart kept the one no child should ever receive.

So today… I’m gently, rebelliously, soulfully letting it go. Not all at once. Not perfectly. Not in some poetic movie-scene moment. But slowly. Quietly. Like a wildflower finally realizing the dirt it grew through wasn’t a curse — it was proof of how strong its roots really are.

I’m learning to release the shame that was placed on me long before I had a chance to understand myself. The shame of abuse. The shame of trauma. The shame of grief. The shame of survival. None of those belonged to me.

I’m giving those stones back to the river. I’m letting my soul unclench. I’m choosing lightness in places I didn’t know could soften. And I’m allowing myself to walk in the light.

& You can too.

🌿 Reflection Prompt for My Readers

What stories, memories, or old beliefs are you carrying that were never yours to hold? Sit with that for a moment. Feel where it lives in your body. And ask yourself: What would it feel like to let even a tiny piece of that weight go today?

Pray with Me

God, walk with me as I lay down the shame that was never meant for my shoulders. Lift the weight of the wounds I did not cause, the silence I was forced into, and the pain I inherited without choice. Remind me that I am Your creation — untouched in worth, unbroken in spirit, and washed clean by Your love. Let every piece of shame I release be replaced with gentleness, with truth, with peace that settles deep in my bones. Guide my steps as I grow, heal, and bloom into the woman You always designed me to be. Amen.

XOXO, THE HEALING WILDFLOWER