Shame is a liar
Recently, I asked a friend about her most embarrassing moment. She piped up immediately with a story about how she accidentally passed gas in the first grade. She was in class, and—it just slipped—she said.
She told me that a nearby boy leaned over to her desk, pointed his finger at her, and whispered, I know that was YOU.
She recounted: It was so embarrassing; I turned bright red.
The funny thing is, all these years later, her cheeks still flushed when she told me the story.
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The feeling of shame is universal: the heat, the eyes on you, the judgment.
There are external situations that bring shame. Perhaps you’ve done something embarrassing or damaging or been caught in a compromising position. You might wonder how you ever let this thing happen. You want to run away and hide—it feels like a terrible nightmare that will disappear if you can wake up.
Some of you have lived through one or more of those situations, and I’m sorry. Because there’s nothing worse than regret, wishing you could go back in time and make different choices.
And then sometimes shame is buried deep within because of something that’s been done to you, perhaps a long, long time ago. And I’m sorry for that, too, because to be on the receiving end of abuse, neglect, or cruelty is a burden that can take a lifetime of reckoning.
And then there is the internal voice of self-criticism, a unique shame that for no good reason whispers to you—in the words of Brene Brown—You are small, flawed, and not good enough.
I’m not too fond of self-deprecation, but this is where I find myself lately.
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My father taught me how to shake hands when I was a little girl.
He showed me how to look a person in the eye and stick my hand out with intention. He demonstrated a firm, intentional handshake. We don’t want a limp fish handshake, he’d say, with his floppy, drooping hand extended for display. He coached me to introduce myself clearly, to shake firmly, and to say, Nice to meet you.
I’ve always felt that a firm handshake is one mark of a strong and confident person.
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I started to notice the swelling in my right arm first. A painful tenderness caught my attention like bruises would soon blossom up and down my arm, but the bruises never appeared. Then I became conscious of my blood vessels: those under the skin of my right wrist were less visible than under my left, indicating a swollenness.
I knew what this was; I was aware that this day might come. I had been actively keeping watch, waiting, and hoping it would pass me by.
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Last August, almost a year ago, I sat in an oncological surgeon’s office at MD Anderson in Houston as she explained that unfortunately—and unexpectedly—two lymph nodes on my unaffected side, my right side, were positive for cancer. At least, that’s what they could see and biopsy. There could be more.
I’d already had the lymph nodes under my left arm removed in my previous mastectomy. Those were gone the previous March, along with both breasts. When the pathology results came back, 12 of those 13 left lymph nodes had cancer.
Lymph nodes are like the body’s filtering system. All the fluid floating around in your body passes through your lymph nodes. In the cancer world, if the disease has infected the lymph nodes, it’s automatically Stage 3 cancer. Theoretically, those little boogers could be pumping microscopic cancer all over your body, a free ride through your lymphatic system, one of the body’s major highways. Next stop: metastatic disease.
My surgeon in Houston explained our dilemma: she could also remove all of the lymph nodes on my right side. That would be the most aggressive treatment. But this would leave me without any lymph nodes under either of my arms—an unusual situation. My risk of developing lymphedema would skyrocket.
Lymphedema is a chronic condition of swelling arms or legs. Lymphatic fluid accumulates in blocked lymph passages, and the affected area balloons up. At its worst, it becomes elephantiasis. It can be moderate to severe, it can come and go, but once it rears its head, it’s likely to be an ongoing, life-long condition to manage.
Lymphedema is what I’d call one of the collateral damages of breast cancer. It’s an entirely different, other thing than cancer, but it’s caused by the very treatment of the cancer—the removal of lymph nodes.
She and I discussed my upcoming surgery. I want to be very clear about the risks, she said. I can just take the first layer of nodes on the right side. I don’t have to take them all since there are only two positive for cancer that we can see now.
But there might be cancer in more? I asked.
She nodded that yes, it was possible.
Ty and I looked at each other. It wasn’t even a question.
Take them all.
After surgery, we discovered that cancer was present in over half of those nodes. Thank God they were gone.
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Spoiler alert: I have developed lymphedema in both arms.
Currently, my right-hand looks like a fat baby hand, which is cute on chubby children but less so on grown women. My whole right arm is swollen and often tender. I wear ugly compression sleeves and gloves all day, every day.
My summer wardrobe used to be primarily cute sleeveless tops and sundresses, but I find myself covering up my arms because I hate the way my Lymphedema sleeves look. I was just with friends last night and as they took a group photo, I heard myself call out, Be sure to crop my arm! As if anyone in the world cares.
I can’t twist open a jar, write well with a pencil, or pull open a heavy door. And shaking hands is basically off the table. After all that childhood training—sorry, Dad.
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I’ve never been one to wallow in insecurity about my body or appearance. But these last two years have been a slow and steady chipping away at that former confidence.
Outside of the compression garments mentioned above (I love that they’re called garments as if this were all part of the fashion industry), I’m particularly self-conscious about my hair—this wild mop of short curls that I’m still figuring out, day by day. It’s thin due to medication and curly, which is totally new to me. And, of course, it’s short, so I’m learning it little by little.
I was at a playground with Eden just a few weeks ago when a little girl approached me.
She looked up at me: Are you her grandma or her mom?
Ah, child. From the mouth of babes.
I assured her that I was indeed Eden’s mom.
She went on (yes, she did go on): Oh. Because of your short hair, I thought maybe you were her grandma.
Yes, I understood it the first time, kid.
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The thin and short hair from chemo, the dry skin and creaky bones from medications, the tight limbs from radiation, the compression sleeves from lymphedema… I feel like I’ve aged ten years in the last two. And somehow, when I was actively fighting cancer, it was understandable. Of course, I would be bald, sick, tired, and old when I’m receiving chemo treatment. But what about now that I’m all finished? I thought I’d be back to normal, and it turns out that this is all now an unfortunate new normal.
I hear a voice in my head that I don’t like. I try to shrug it off, but it clings to my shoulder, a monkey on my back that I can’t shake. It’s the voice of shame, and I hate it.
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I recently ran across a picture of myself, which made my heart sink a little bit. I was standing in the studio with this cute, blonde top knot bun and fringe bangs.
I showed it to Ty. Do you remember that I had cute bangs? Right before we found out about the cancer and it all fell out… Do you remember my cute hair?
He looked at the picture and then up at me. Nope. All I remember is your cute hair now.
God love that man. What a gem.
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The things I feel ashamed about don’t matter to Ty. What matters is that I’m here, exactly as I am, with him.
Isn’t this a picture of the gospel?
All God wants is you, exactly as you are, with him. And he wanted it badly enough to take on the extraordinary sacrifice and work needed to make it happen.
I am flawed. Perhaps I don’t feel like enough because I’m not enough. But all my gaps and insufficiencies are covered by the work and character of the one who is. He covers my shame, takes it on himself, and redeems it. He makes beauty from ashes. His enough becomes mine.
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I was in Colorado with my family a few weeks ago and had a couple of hours alone. I felt particularly sorry for myself, letting the shame whispers enter, wallowing in shallow thoughts.
My phone dinged. It was a notification from my Bible app on the verse of the day, which was from Psalm 103 in The Message:
He forgives your sins—every one.
He heals your diseases—every one.
He wraps you in goodness—beauty eternal.
He renews your youth—you’re always young in his presence.
God makes everything come out right; he puts victims back on their feet.
I looked up at the stunning and glorious heights of the Colorado mountains and looked down at those words before me:
-healed disease
-beauty eternal
-always young
The tears flowed freely. It’s almost like he was listening.
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Shame is a liar. Like the little boy in my friend’s class, shame points the finger at you, and you feel the heat of it.
How do you combat a lie? With the truth, of course.
No matter what kind of shame—whether it stems from a childhood wound or choices you’ve made, or you’ve just opened the door to that snickering inner voice, we must actively fight it.
Here is where I’m going to shamelessly plug our new 2023 Floral Scripture Calendar, which happens to be a special Gospel Edition. Because I think we all need a daily dose of truth and grace flowing over our minds and trickling down to our hearts. Let’s remind ourselves month after month after month.
Click here to order yours today and get 15% off during our pre-sale event. The calendars are currently printing and should be ready for pickup by early August. This product always sells out quickly, so be sure to grab one while you still can!
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In the meantime, you can find me at the studio, pool, or park sporting my fun compression garments, the perfect summer accessory. Who doesn’t love to sit poolside wearing thick nylon sleeves?
But on the bright side, the cooler weather will be here before we know it, and I’m going to lean into the silver lining that I will be extra cozy and warm this season… cheers to that!
