Suitcases of Shame

If you’ve read my book Living With Gremlins, you’re already familiar with the shame I carry.

For years—really, a lifetime—I’ve been “working on myself,” trying to become a better version of me. Or, as we’re often taught spiritually, trying to “remember who I am.”

I’ve changed diets, built new habits, exercised, gone to therapy, practiced meditation, explored spirituality—the list goes on.

Even though I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my life, I never stopped trying. Trying to make it go away. Trying to make it—me—better.

But it always felt like one step forward, two steps back.

All the effort. All the determination. Every quick fix suggested by people who didn’t truly understand. The breakthroughs in therapy. The moments of spiritual clarity… none of it lasted.

And when it didn’t last, it left behind frustration, anger, excuses, and eventually, a loss of hope—until I found myself filled with nothing but shame.

As I wrote in Living With Gremlins:

“That shame will settle itself deep down and become an unconscious way of life.”

I couldn’t help but believe it must be me. That there was something fundamentally wrong inside me—that peace and grace would always be just out of reach.

Of course, there were moments. Small, fleeting moments.

A conversation with my therapist where I walked out feeling like a whole person… almost like me.

A moment where I could pause, breathe, smile, and think, “Maybe I’m not so different.”

But those moments never lasted. They slipped quietly away.

There were also magical experiences. I’ve connected with spirit guides, met my spirit animal, and brought light to parts of myself that needed compassion and understanding.

But even those moments were fleeting. No matter how tightly I tried to hold onto the light, it slipped through my fingers—leaving me in the darkness again.

So I made jokes. Called myself Homer Simpson. Tried to be grateful for the glimpses of peace.

But the truth?

I felt like a failure.

What was wrong with me?

What wasn’t I understanding?

Why was my shame so resilient when I was trying so hard to heal?

I lived with those questions for a lifetime.

The answer only came recently.

I had been treating my shame like it was one giant balloon—something that could be stretched tighter and tighter until, eventually, it would burst and disappear.

I believed that if I just worked hard enough, tried enough, wanted it badly enough… that balloon would finally pop, and I’d be free.

But that’s not how it works.

My shame wasn’t held in a balloon.

It was packed away… in suitcases.

Suitcases I’ve been carrying with me all along.

And suddenly, something shifted.

I began to see that all the work I’d been doing was helping. It was making a difference—I just hadn’t recognized it.

Because with every step, every effort, I wasn’t popping a balloon…

I was unpacking a suitcase.

One at a time.

Every therapy session, every moment of reflection, every attempt—big or small—gave me the strength to bring a suitcase forward. To open it. To shine light on the shame inside.

And slowly, I began to find something I didn’t even realize I was building:

Love.

Love for my 6-year-old self.

My 14-year-old self.

My 29-year-old self.

My 49-year-old self.

The love I needed to finally let that shame go—and release it back to the earth.

When I first began this journey, the suitcases were small. They had to be. I wasn’t strong enough yet to face the heavier ones.

But as I grew, I was given the strength to pull forward the ones buried deep in the back.

Some were so heavy, just lifting them felt exhausting.

Some had been sitting there for decades—covered in dust, tangled in cobwebs, so embedded in me they felt like part of who I was.

And when I opened them… I found shame I didn’t even know existed. Old, forgotten pain that had turned into something toxic.

Something that had been quietly poisoning me.

I wish I could say I live free of shame now.

I don’t. Not yet.

I can’t always recognize which suitcase a feeling belongs to. I can’t always unpack it in the moment and let it go.

But what I do have now is awareness.

I know the suitcases are there.

I know that unpacking them takes time, strength, and love.

And I know—finally—that every step forward and every step back had a purpose.

I don’t make jokes about myself anymore.

Because now I understand:

I’m not failing.

I’m healing.

And I am making progress.

If these words resonate with you, and you’d like to talk about your own “suitcases of shame,” please reach out.

With love,

Marcie