Facing shame

Author’s note: this text was written with my mother’s permission. It was originally published in French and was translated in English.

In recent months, I’ve noticed that when we double down on activism or increase our involvement within an organization, we also become more visible—and therefore more exposed. Visibility seems to grant permission for a certain kind of intrusion. We become easy targets. It suddenly feels acceptable for others to contact us however they choose, including through our employer. Past mistakes—real, perceived, or long buried—are unearthed and weaponized years later. Even private messages filled with insults appear to be fair game, delivered while you are quite literally standing at a podium, presenting.

I am trying to navigate these moments, and I won’t pretend it’s easy. When emotions run high, the nervous system defaults to survival: fight, flight, or freeze. The instinct is to protect oneself. Lately, I’ve been learning to confront shame—because like everyone else, I carry a past made up of moments I’m proud of, and others I’m not. That past still forms part of who I am today.

So I am consciously resisting my instincts, choosing growth even as the storm continues. I know I am far from the first to experience this, and certainly not the last. That is why I’m writing this: to share my experience and to encourage resilience in the face of shame—whether you live in the public eye or not.

Shame and Survivors of Violence

Survivors of violence and abuse are intimately familiar with shame—and with guilt. Predators are skilled manipulators. They know how to attack from every angle: mental, emotional, physical, and financial. From the very beginning, they redirect shame onto their victims, when it should instead rest squarely on their shoulders for the harm they inflict.

If, like me, you are a survivor of sexual, psychological, or financial violence, shame has likely walked beside you for a long time. It becomes a trigger, resurfacing in moments of vulnerability or confrontation. And if one of your parents was also a victim of violence—of any kind—you may have inherited their shame as well, even if they never intended it. Is it any wonder, then, that shame makes us panic? That it sends us scrambling for cover, longing to disappear under a rock—or under the covers—the moment we feel attacked?

My mother lived through more than fifteen years of domestic violence at the hands of my biological father: psychological cruelty, sexual violence, physical abuse, and financial control. I knew this growing up, though I didn’t fully remember it. Only recently did I come to understand just how severe it was. Repeated sexual assaults in her own childhood had normalized violence for her from a young age.

As a child, I didn’t understand the constant shame that seemed to follow her, but certain memories stand out. She worried endlessly about what my friends would think of our house when they came over, always comparing it to theirs. At the time, I didn’t understand why. Eventually, after being questioned so often, I stopped inviting friends over altogether—and slowly, I began to feel ashamed of our home myself, even though I hadn’t been at first.

My biological father—well known as an alcoholic and a bootlegger—was another source of shame. As a child, I couldn’t name the deep discomfort I felt when I visited him, surrounded by men drinking, beer bottles scattered everywhere. I didn’t yet have the language to recognize that feeling for what it was: shame.

From a young age, the gaze and judgment of others made themselves known. They contributed to my sense of being different, of being marginalized, and they amplified that shame. Some of my friends’ mothers questioned me about my mother’s divorce—and her second marriage—every time I entered their home. Others would ask, “You’re X’s daughter, right?” I would answer yes, and the silence that followed—or the small sounds of disapproval—spoke volumes.

I didn’t understand everything then, but I felt the judgment acutely. To cope, I turned—thankfully—to sports, extracurricular activities, and community involvement. I became an overachiever, trying to compensate for what I believed were fundamental flaws.

Learning to Build Resilience

Are you familiar with how shame feels in the body? Because we don’t just experience it emotionally—we experience it physically. For some, it rises in the throat or spreads across the face like heat. For others, it settles in the stomach or feels like blood freezing in the veins.

For me, it lives in my chest and my gut. Time seems to stop. Sometimes the sensation is so intense that when people speak to me, I barely hear them. I describe these physical reactions intentionally, because we rarely learn to recognize shame—let alone confront it—at a young age. Instead, we’re taught to repress it, to bury both the sensations and the events that caused them.

Silence plays a powerful role here. Silence feeds shame. It gives it a home inside us, where it can grow like a parasite. Over time, I’ve learned that the most effective antidotes to shame are sharing and compassion—speaking about what happened, and meeting ourselves with kindness. It isn’t easy, but I know now that it works, because I’ve practiced it.

Recently, my coach introduced me to an exercise focused on a particularly painful part of my past—one still heavy with emotion and shame. We gave it a neutral name and placed it at the centre of a tic-tac-toe–style grid. Around it, she invited me to explore different responses: I forgive myself. I protect myself. I don’t care.

Then I was asked to embody each response—to act it out. The “I don’t care” reaction was nearly impossible; it felt completely disconnected from my truth. We saved I forgive myself for last. That, I learned, is where the deepest pain hides. No one is a harsher judge than ourselves.

When the voices rose—I should have, I could have—my coach invited today’s Nadine to meet the Nadine of the past. To offer her compassion. I was able to visualize it clearly: walking side by side, her head resting on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her as she cried in silence. We walked like that for a long time.

I suspect we’ll need to take more walks. That version of me still needs companionship. She needs to feel loved and accepted. I cannot change the past—but I can change how I carry it. I can loosen the emotional weight attached to it.

At this point in my life, I am actively working on building resilience toward shame. In that spirit, I want to share that earlier this week, I took a deeply vulnerable step. Alongside my husband, I became an ambassador for the Beauséjour Family Crisis Resource Centre’s Run for Women 2021, and I chose to publicly share my personal experience at the launch.

I can hardly describe the thoughts that flooded my mind as I sat in that room—or how close I came to losing my composure when I stepped up to the podium. The next day, I felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable—especially after reading the media coverage.

Part of me is proud. I did this for survivors of abuse, in all its forms. But I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that a small part of regret still lingers. Progress is rarely linear. Sometimes we step forward, then back, so we can move forward again with greater clarity.

What I know for certain is this: silence now repels me. I can no longer remain in the status quo. And it is precisely this refusal of silence that allows me to keep moving—speaking, sharing, and showing up—even when it feels profoundly uncomfortable.

That, too, is resilience.