The Culture of Shame

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about shame.

Not the loud, public kind. Not the dramatic exposure kind. The quieter kind. The kind that hums under the surface of our communities, our churches, our workplaces. The kind that shows up in whispers. In raised eyebrows. In the stories we tell ourselves about other people’s lives.

And if I’m honest, this week it hit me in a very personal way.

I’m sick. Severe bronchitis bordering on pneumonia. Antibiotics. Inhalers. The whole glamorous production.

Which means I’ve missed school all week.

And yet — every evening — I’ve still been at rehearsal.

Because it’s tech week. Because the show opens next week. Because there is no one else to take my place.

And that contradiction has messed with my head more than the diagnosis.

I’m supposed to rest to get better. I’m supposed to stay home for at least two days after starting antibiotics. I’m supposed to protect my lungs. And yet I’m also supposed to make sure the show is ready. The families expect it. The students deserve it. Admin assumes it. The community will show up for it.

So I miss the part of the day that technically pays my bills… and show up for the part that doesn’t.

In what world does that make sense?

And yet, the heaviest part hasn’t been the schedule.

It’s been the internal pressure.

The guilt.
The shame.
The “you’re not enough” narrative.

Because the culture of shame doesn’t allow complexity.

It wants clean categories.

If you’re sick, stay home completely.
If you’re committed, show up completely.
If you’re faithful, don’t struggle.
If you’re strong, don’t falter.

But real life is never that clean.

You can be sick
and responsible.

You can miss work
and care deeply.

You can need rest
and still love the show.

You can be finite
and faithful.

The shame culture doesn’t know what to do with that.

Real life is tech week with antibiotics.

Real life is directing with an inhaler.

Real life is loving Jesus and still being angry.

Real life is doing your best and still feeling like it isn’t enough.

And last night, the most unexpected grace came from the folks in the trenches with me.

Ben and Ian looked at me — really looked at me — and sent me home.

Not because I wasn’t committed.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I was clearly running on fumes.

That was grace.

And it made me realize how rarely we offer that to each other.

Because this isn’t just about sickness. It’s about the way we handle each other’s fragility. When someone’s marriage hits a rough season — or even ends in divorce — it doesn’t take long for concern to turn into quiet speculation. When something scary happens to someone else — divorce, job loss, an early return from a mission — we instinctively look for a reason that makes us feel safer.

If we can locate a flaw — “They rushed it,” “They didn’t communicate,” “They weren’t strong enough,” “They must not have tried hard enough” — then we subconsciously tell ourselves, See? That won’t be me. I’m different.

It’s less about cruelty and more about fear management.

When someone doesn’t follow the expected timeline — doesn’t have kids right away, dates longer than the cultural norm, leaves a job unexpectedly, shifts careers, struggles quietly in faith — we get uncomfortable. And discomfort often turns into whispering. Sometimes the loudest declarations of virtue make it harder to admit imperfection, and that tension quietly builds a culture where appearance matters more than honesty.

And if I’m going to be honest — I’m not above this.

I have judged.
I have whispered.
I have made assumptions.
I have held onto resentment longer than was healthy.
I have replayed stories in my head and felt justified in my anger.

I’ve been wrong.

And that’s the part that matters.

Because this isn’t about calling someone else out.

It’s about communal repentance.

It’s about realizing that shame culture isn’t just “out there.” It lives in me too.

There are situations in my life where reconciliation hasn’t happened. Where apologies haven’t come. Where accountability feels lopsided. I’m not excusing harm. I’m not erasing boundaries. I’m not demanding reconciliation where it isn’t safe or possible.

But I also don’t want my character to depend on someone else’s repentance.

I don’t want to become hardened just because grace wasn’t extended to me.

I don’t want to withhold compassion just because I felt misunderstood.

I don’t want to reduce someone to the worst thing they did — because I don’t want to be reduced to mine.

Sometimes I literally pray, “Lord, don’t let me become what hurt me.”

Because that’s the deeper issue.

Shame culture thrives when we protect image over honesty. When we’d rather appear strong than admit we’re struggling. When we’d rather quote virtue than practice vulnerability. When we’d rather whisper than ask, “How can I help?”

And maybe this is where the conviction lands — not as exposure, but as awakening.

Where have I contributed to that?
Where have I let fear masquerade as discernment?
Where have I preferred tidy categories over complex humanity?

Because the truth is:

You can be overwhelmed
and faithful.

You can be wounded
and gracious.

You can be disappointed
and still choose integrity.

And you can be sick — lungs on fire, body exhausted —
and still deeply committed to the people you serve.

This post was born in that space.

In the space of feeling “not enough.”
In the space of comparison.
In the space of wondering how I can rest and show up at the same time.

And what I’m realizing is this:

Grace is the antidote to shame.

Not permissiveness.
Not denial.
Not lack of accountability.

Grace.

The kind that says:
“I see you.”
“I trust you.”
“I assume you’re doing your best.”
“I don’t need a perfect explanation to offer compassion.”

The kind of grace I’m so grateful my God extends to me.

Second chances.
Ninth chances.
Forty-billionth chances.

Forgiveness when I ask.
Mercy when I fail.
Steadiness when I spin.

And if He can offer that to me,
I can offer a fraction of it to others.

Even when it’s hard.
Even when it’s complicated.
Even when reconciliation never comes.

Because I don’t want to live in a culture of shame.

I want to live in a culture of grace.

And maybe it starts here.

With me.
With you.

With the quiet, steady decision to stop whispering, to stop categorizing, to stop demanding perfection from finite people. And instead, to hold space for the “and.” Because real life is messy. Real life is complicated. Real life is tech week with antibiotics.

And none of that means we’re broken.

It just means we’re human.