Telling the Truth Anyway: Releasing Guilt, Generational Shame, and the Fear of Being Seen

I’ve spent most of my life censoring myself – afraid to say too much, afraid to upset anyone, afraid to tell the truth about things I’ve lived through. I thought that protecting other people’s feelings meant abandoning my own. But lately, something has been shifting. 

I believe much of this change has coming from the work I’ve been doing with this blog, and the conversations that have come not just from blog posts, but from social media posts as well. There have been times that posts have become rawer and more vulnerable than I had planned. There were times when I’d wonder if I’d be sharing too much; if someone’s feelings could be hurt from my words. But then I’d get comments and DMs from people who gave been through similar things and I’d realize that I’m not alone and that my feelings are valid. For those of you who have expressed to me that you needed to read my words, just know that I’ve needed to read yours as well. 

The fear of being “too much” is a very real thing. As a child, I was told to sit down and shut up so many times that the words still ring in my head like a bell. Saying how I felt could either result in me being called sensitive or disrespectful, and to this day, I get told to let things go because life is too short. Boundaries are often violated in the name of being family or being an elder. If an apology or changed behavior never comes, it’s okay because, “you know, that’s just how they are.” One time, I was watching What’s Love Got to Do with It and found myself relating to Tina Turner and her story and I said it and was told, “nobody wants to hear that.

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Constantly being told that you’re too much, that your feelings aren’t your feelings, that your memories aren’t your memories, that nobody cares about your dreams – it trains you to be quiet. It teaches you to hide your light and underestimate yourself – and oftentimes, you won’t even know why you’re doing it. Older millennials didn’t grow up knowing about the financial abuse that can happen in childhood and early adulthood under the guise of “contributing.” Many of us – especially people of color – were taught that we owe our caregivers for raising us, even though the bible that so many of them thump on would say differently. 

The more I allowed myself to tell my story, the more I began to see that I wasn’t alone. Just this morning, I shared a post about the boxer, Stephen Fulton who shared the hurtful words his mother said after he suffered the only loss of his career: Damn, there goes my house. It made me remember being pressured to use my student financial aid to pay bills. It made me remember how I got so sick, I ended up flunking out of college, only to be shamed for flunking out of college. It made me remember the times when I’d say what happened to me and being told that I was victimizing myself. It made me remember how to this day, the person who did this to me is angry and acting as if I did something to THEM. 

Sharing posts like these and telling my story causes others to share theirs. I’ve come to feel like it’s created this safe space – this circle of healing. How could one feel guilty for healing? How could anyone feel guilty about releasing the emotional weight that could be so deeply stored within the body that there’s no telling what it could be doing to you? How could someone feel guilty for wanting to leave behind the people who hurt them continuously and unapologetically? For choosing to still believe in love and want to try again in spaces and with people who respect the people they are and the boundaries they set?

How indeed.

I no longer carry silence as my shield, hoping that one day the people I’d like to see me would see me as I’d like to be seen. I choose to see myself the way I’d like to be seen. I’m choosing authenticity, even when my voice shakes. There are times when I want to delete everything I’ve written, but I choose to share anyway.

When I share my story, when I show my wounds and tell how I’m actively healing them, I don’t do so to hurt anyone. I tell my story to free myself. I tell it because silence kept me small, and I’m not small anymore. I’m allowed to love and be loved. And I’m allowed to be seen – fully.