The Garment of Shame

I was a little girl who wore shame that didn’t belong to her.

I knew where it came from.

I knew it came from things that happened in my family.

I knew it came from things people knew.

I knew it came from whispers, opinions, comparisons, and labels that found their way onto my shoulders long before I was old enough to understand what to do with them.

I remember not wanting people to know what was in the newspapers.

I remember not wanting people to know who my dad was.

Not because I didn’t love him.

I did.

That was the confusing part.

Most people feared him.

I didn’t.

Even as a little girl, I could see beyond the anger.

I could see beyond the destruction.

I could see the brokenness.

I could see the hurting boy inside the man.

I always had grace for him.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was giving grace to everyone else, I wasn’t giving any to myself.

I carried shame that wasn’t mine.

I carried embarrassment that wasn’t mine.

I carried labels that weren’t mine.

I carried judgments that weren’t mine.

And after carrying them long enough, I started believing they belonged to me.

I learned how to hide.

I learned how to protect myself.

I learned how to walk into a room and make sure nobody could see what I was feeling.

I learned how to build walls.

I learned how to be tough.

I learned how to survive.

But underneath all of it was a tender little girl.

A little girl sitting on her mother’s lap while chaos unfolded around her.

A little girl trying to make sense of things children were never meant to carry.

A little girl who loved deeply.

A little girl who forgave easily.

A little girl who saw the good in people even when others couldn’t.

A little girl who thought there must be something wrong with her.

Not because anyone sat her down and said those words.

But because shame has a way of speaking without words.

And embarrassment has a way of teaching you to lower your head.

So I spent years trying to prove there was nothing wrong with me.

Trying to prove I was enough.

Trying to prove I wasn’t what people thought.

Trying to prove I wasn’t what people said.

Trying to prove I wasn’t marked by someone else’s story.

But God has been showing me something.

I never was.

The mark that remained wasn’t the mark of my family.

It wasn’t the mark of the newspaper.

It wasn’t the mark of comparisons.

It wasn’t the mark of someone else’s weakness.

It was the mark of Christ.

Jesus didn’t just forgive my sin.

He took my shame.

The shame I carried.

The shame I wore.

The shame that never belonged to me in the first place.

And now, after all these years, I think I am finally learning what that little girl needed to know.

There was never anything wrong with her.

She wasn’t less than.

She wasn’t damaged.

She wasn’t defined by what happened around her.

She was loved.

She was chosen.

She was His.

The little girl who had grace for everyone else is finally learning to have grace for herself.

This is the look of freedom.

Not becoming someone new.

Finally believing who God says you have been all along. ❤️