Shame doesn’t dissolve when we tell it to go away.

It softens when it no longer has a job.

Many people come to me carrying shame —

but not always the kind they expect.

Yes, sometimes there is shame about sex.

About desire.

About touching their own body.

But more often, the shame lives somewhere less obvious.

Shame about wanting a different kind of relationship — one that may or may not include their current partner, even though they’re deeply unhappy.

Shame about feeling anger when their needs aren’t met.

Shame about longing for a life, a relationship, a sexuality that feels alive rather than merely “good enough.”

These are not behaviours most people associate with sexual shame.

And yet, this is where it often hides.

Shame is one of the most uncomfortable emotions we experience — so we try to suppress it, manage it, think our way out of it, or label it as a personal flaw.

But the way I understand shame is very different.

Shame is not a moral failure.

It is a survival emotion.

Its job is not to punish us —

it is to protect us.

Especially in childhood, shame functions as a powerful mechanism that keeps us attached to the people and communities we depend on to survive. When our access to safety, care, food, shelter, or belonging relies on caregivers, anything that threatens that bond activates shame.

In that sense, shame is deeply intelligent.

It helps us avoid punishment, abandonment, or the loss of vital resources — all of which would have been genuinely dangerous at one point in our lives.

The problem isn’t shame itself.

The problem is when the context changes, but the nervous system hasn’t caught up.

As adults, our circumstances are often very different.

We may have financial independence.

Emotional capacity.

Choice.

And yet, the body can still associate difference with danger.

So someone might intellectually know:

“I’m allowed to think differently from my family.”

“I’m allowed to touch my own body.”

“I’m allowed to want more.”

“I’m allowed to want something else.”

But there is a part of them that still experiences those choices as risky —

because once, they were.

In intimacy, shame often shows up first in the body — and this is often the easiest way to recognise it.

People describe:

• a sinking sensation in the stomach

• tightness in the chest

• heart palpitations

• panic

• numbness

Curiosity collapses.

Desire turns into self-monitoring.

Presence gives way to performance.

And this is important:

Shame does not release through confrontation or logic.

You can’t argue shame away.

You can’t shame yourself for feeling ashamed.

Shame softens through safety — particularly relational safety.

That relationship might be with another person:

a therapist, a partner, a trusted friend, a non-judgmental adult.

Or it might be a relationship you cultivate within yourself.

What matters is the experience of being met without being fixed.

Seen without being corrected.

Witnessed without judgment.

If you’re doing this work internally, I often invite clients to relate to shame not as a flaw, but as a frightened younger part — a child who learned, very early on, that certain desires, feelings, or expressions were dangerous.

I sometimes offer this image:

Shame is like a scared child trying to drive a car.

You don’t punish the child.

You don’t throw them out of the car.

You gently let them know they don’t have to drive anymore.

They can sit beside you —

while your adult self takes the wheel.

When shame is met with compassion rather than judgment, it begins to soften.

And from that softening, something important becomes possible again:

Choice.

I don’t believe every single person needs therapy to heal.

But I do believe we all need safe people —

people who can hold a container where we are allowed to meet parts of ourselves without being shamed for them.

Because shame doesn’t dissolve when we tell it to go away.

It softens

when it no longer has a job.