"If you put shame in a petri dish, it needs three ingredients to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment. If you put the same amount of shame in the petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can't survive."— Brené Brown, Listening to Shame (2012 TED Talk)
We sit in our classroom, nearly two dozen people of all ages, backgrounds, and stages of life. Most of us have been dreading this meeting because we have to give a five-minute presentation describing our moments of growth during this first year of training to become counselors. Different paths led us here—to this room, this point in life—and sharing parts of our souls will inevitably bring us back to reliving them.
Growth rarely happens without collateral pain, and this pain is as real as it gets.
Before we begin, our tutor tells us a story about another presentation class before ours. She describes how one person opened up, speaking about something deeply difficult, exposing their vulnerability. And how another student, while giving feedback, said that this person was broken.
The word felt like a slap—it almost physically connected with my face, rushing blood to my skin, leaving a pulsating palm print on my cheek.
Broken.
I have felt broken countless times.
When I had a silent miscarriage and tried to live through the betrayal of my own body and the paralyzing grief, while the world around me painted itself black.
When I had my rainbow baby, my son, and the motherhood I thought I was prepared for turned out to be a thousand times harder than anything I had ever done or experienced.
When, just a few months after leaving my first husband, I discovered that he had been having an affair—years ago—with one of my closest friends. A friend who had still been a big part of my life. A friend who had slept in my bed just nights before the terrifying discovery, feeling sad, lonely, and lost.
As I get older, my perspective on all these things shifts. Sometimes, I wish I could reach out to that younger version of myself and tell her that every time she felt broken and in need of repair, the pain piercing her insides was a necessary requirement for change. For growth.
I would tell her that emotional pain is strikingly similar to physical pain: when something in our body hurts and we don’t know what’s causing it, the uncertainty, the anxiety over the lack of explanation, produces panic and fear.
Is something terrible happening to me? Am I sick? Is it dangerous? Will I survive this?
The questions multiply, crawling into our minds, overwhelming and unwavering.
But there is another kind of pain—one that, despite its intensity, comes with an understanding of its origin and meaning. The soreness in our muscles after a good workout. The pain of labor, when the mind understands how natural, how finite it is, and what will come after. The discomfort of healing during recovery from surgery.
Knowing what is happening to us is a powerful ally—the awareness of a painful transition strips away the anxiety of the unknown.
But what about this brokenness I used to feel so intensely?
The answer hit me during my morning jog (I will keep recommending this kind of therapy), and it was so simple, so obvious, that I started laughing.
Shame.
What a powerful weapon we turn against ourselves, over and over again.
What a force—splitting, isolating, breaking us apart.
Sitting in that classroom, surrounded by people sharing their struggles, opening their hearts, I tasted tears on my lips.
My own tears of compassion, empathy, and love toward each and every person who, just nine months ago, was a stranger to me.
More than anything, I wanted to have a superpower—to let them see themselves through my eyes.
But that’s not how growth and healing happen.
Healing is a process of self-discovery and self-acceptance. A long and winding road filled with obstacles of all kinds. A path worth taking.
Some people travel it alone. Others need guides—trained therapists who can take their hand and be there every step of the way.
That’s why I’m here, I thought.
That’s who I want to become.
Someone who understands that people can’t be broken, no matter how deeply they may feel that way.
Someone who can help them see that every piece of themselves still belongs—still matters—still forms a whole.