Shame Isn't a Compass, But I Keep Using It

 

Image by DeepAI

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying not to let people down.

That sounds noble. It is, sometimes. But more often, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s been a way of keeping myself locked into roles and responsibilities that I didn’t really want — out of shame.

Let’s be clear about something right up front: Shame isn’t a compass.

But I’ve used it like one.

It usually starts with something that feels right. Someone’s in a tough spot. I have a little room to step in and help; offer some support. I say to myself (and sometimes out loud), “I’ll figure it out.”

For a while, it masquerades as compassion, loyalty, and even integrity. But if I let myself step back, even just a little, I can usually see what’s actually the fuel behind the fire: the belief that if I don’t help, if I don’t carry it, I’ll be letting someone down.

And if I let someone down, I’ve failed, and not just at the task, but as a person.

That’s shame talking. It’s interesting how shame and a hero complex look so similar. Perhaps, in a lot of ways, they’re like twins separated at birth.

It happened again only a few weeks ago. I agreed to something of a joint venture with a friend. What we want to do together is something I genuinely believe in. He needed income, and I wanted to make it work. Initially, I approached the situation as a commission-only deal — just until we got our feet under us. After some persistence on his part, I agreed to pay him something to get us going.

But I hadn’t thought — basically at all — through what he actually needed or whether I could realistically provide it. Neither of us had a strong lead list, or any active customers, and I didn’t have the financial capacity to cover the ramp-up.

Still, I told my friend three or four times that I’d “figure it out.”

What I really meant was: I’ll carry it. I’ll sacrifice. I’ll be the hero.

The regret came almost immediately. I wasn’t angry with him at all. He’s my friend and he was honest about what he needed. But I made a promise I couldn’t keep, not without hurting my own family. I let my excitement (hero complex) pull me in without counting the cost. I just defaulted to my self- and time-imposed wiring: if someone else is in trouble, and I have anything to give — even if it breaks me — I owe it.

That’s not generosity. That’s martyrdom dressed up in shame’s clothing.

I had to go back and have a hard conversation. I had to admit that I’d overpromised. There really was no way I could financially support another family in hopes that the business would eventually work. I mean, I wasn’t even in a position to provide for my own family from the business, yet here I was promising to take care of another one.

It was hard because I let my need to be the rescuer cloud my judgment.

I was ashamed. Not just because I made a poor financial decision. But because I told someone I would show up in a way that I couldn’t sustain.

The worst part is this was far from the first time.

I’ve done it with clients. With coworkers. Even with my family. I’ve let shame (the hero complex) steer me into situations where I agreed to things I didn’t want to do, or have the mental, emotional, physical, or financial capacity to do; because I thought not doing them would somehow make me a bad person.

It’s another badge I’ve worn. The surface is dull from the number of times I’ve polished it, but you can definitely make out the words work ethic and principle on there. Bu the truth is, a lot of it is just shame with a different (better?) wardrobe.

There’s a line between showing up with love… and showing up because you’re afraid of what it could mean if you don’t. I don’t think the line is that fine, but shame can re-cast a chasm as a single strand of silk. It basically disappears in just the right light.

In the right circumstances, self-sacrifice can be a great strength. Like anything else, however, the over-application of self-sacrifice is arguably one of the worst things you can do for yourself. It’s weird, in a way, that self-sacrifice has become a coping mechanism for me— a way to earn my place, to hold onto relevance, to keep being needed.

There are a few lessons I’m learning — slowly and painfully — that might resonate:

• Love doesn’t demand that I disappear to prove it’s real.
• Saying no isn’t failure.
• Sometimes, the most honest thing I can do is acknowledge my own limits before I pretend I don’t have any.

That last lesson is a particularly hard one.

Shame tries to steer almost all the time. It tells me that being honest about my boundaries makes me selfish. That if someone’s disappointed in me, I must have done something wrong. That unless I’m the one carrying the weight, I’m letting it fall.

The climb out of the canyon is hard. I’ve had to learn to pause. To breathe. To ask better questions.

• Am I doing this out of love? Or fear?
• Am I helping because it’s wise? Or because I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I don’t?
• Am I showing up? Or disappearing in the name of being useful?

Shame really isn’t a compass. It’s a siren — the Ulysses-tied-to-the-mast kind.

And I’m finally learning not to follow its call.

Not perfectly, and certainly not always.

But more than I used to.

And that feels like progress.