Living Beyond Shame

Learning When to Engage and When to Walk Away

My lovies—

Today’s essay is about shame. Or about living beyond shame in a world that calls for it.

The version you are reading this morning is the third iteration of this piece.

The first was a rageful, how-not-to-murder-your-Trumpist-neighbor kind of missive—too raw, too sharp-edged.

The second veered into behavioral psychology, rhetoric, the mechanics of persuasion—too intellectual, too distanced from the weight of what I was trying to grasp.

This third essay is something different. It is not a plea for reconciliation, nor a surrender to civility for civility’s sake. It is, instead, a more hopeful and personified account of something I have been feeling without yet being able to name: how to resist cruelty by refusing to let rage, fear, and shame sever our ability to care.

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First, let me tell you a story.

Last week, I was walking the dog, children in tow. I remembered that, not too long ago, blue VOTE! lawn signs were neatly arranged, inviting neighbors to support a form of democracy that, while extremely flawed, was not about bullying, stripping, and mass firings.

I was lost in thought when I noticed a house with its garage door open, Trump 2024 signs peeking out from a pile of Rubbermaid storage bins.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Don’t Tread on Me plate affixed to a truck in the driveway was a warning. I hate stereotypes, mostly because they are often true.

Something in me snapped in that instant. Rage flooded in.

I felt myself crossing the street, drawn toward the house. I was ready to knock on their door and demand answers.

Are you proud now? Do you realize the harm you’ve done?

I’m not sure what I believed I would accomplish—walking up like some rage-filled Karen, practically begging for hostility, gearing up for a cathartic fight with strangers.

I quickly rehearsed in my head well-constructed arguments, ready to shove them down their stupid throats.

I didn’t care about the rage or the scene I might cause—I even skipped over the fact that I was with my kids.

My desire to shame them was greater than dignity, greater than safety, greater than strategic thinking.

My oldest snapped me out of it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, throwing an arm across her sister’s chest to stop her from following me.

The rage left as quickly as it came.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, stepping back to the sidewalk. I patted her head, grounding myself, while her sister absentmindedly chewed on her hair.

We kept walking. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal—not theirs, but mine.

I had almost put my kids in harm’s way out of pure, unfiltered fury.

The Ripple Effect of Division

Later that week, over drinks with women from my neighborhood, I heard familiar stories—people at risk of losing their jobs, also losing friends and family over ideological rifts.

Some choose to sever ties completely, unwilling to tolerate harmful views in their circles. Others stay, struggling with the pain of ideological separation, watching loved ones embrace conspiracy theories, bigotry, or reactionary politics while trying to make themselves—their feelings, their hurt—heard and respected.

The psychological cost of division is immense. The suffering spreads outward—not just through families and friendships, but through entire communities, as the line between engagement and abandonment grows thinner.

I used to believe that the best way forward was direct confrontation—that silence was complicity, that a lack of outrage meant surrender.

If someone wasn’t actively fighting, weren’t they part of the problem?

I mistook withholding for cowardice.
I misread self-preservation as apathy.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m just as restless as the next gal in the face of our representatives’ limpness, raising their little auction paddles like bidders at a 4-H livestock sale.

But over time, I began to see that not all silence is surrender.

For those of us who have wrestled with shame—through trauma, childhood survival, or abusive systems—our presence and action can speak louder than confrontation.

Why Shame Fails as a Tool for Change

The impulse to shame people into moral clarity is understandable.

But behavioral psychology, rhetoric, and social justice movements all show us that shame is an unreliable tool for persuasion.

Instead of pulling people toward self-reflection, it often pushes them further away.

Reactance theory explains that when people feel attacked, they instinctively push back. The more you challenge their autonomy, the more they dig in.

Identity-protective cognition shows that people don’t just hold beliefs; they wrap them around their sense of self. Challenge the belief, and they feel like you’re attacking them.

Cognitive dissonance reinforces this. When confronted with proof that contradicts their worldview, many double down rather than reconsider.

So, the real question is: Is trying to persuade people even worth our time?

In normal times, yes. Persuasion works, guiding others toward realizations they reach on their own.

But these are not normal times, are they?

What Happens Under Authoritarianism?

In authoritarian regimes or under autocratic leaders, traditional persuasion techniques often fail.

Leaders like Trump and Musk maintain power through repression, propaganda, and media manipulation. Each camp recedes into its ideological world, severing the possibility of communication.

So what do we do?

At a macro level—diplomatic pressure, economic sanctions, and underground resistance.

At a local level—tight-knit communities, individual and communal care. The real kind, not the bubble bath.

The Power of Withholding and Reframing Resistance

While discussing these fractures in our families and friendships, a friend spoke up.

A brilliant federal worker—someone who has spent her entire life in service to others, so far removed from the “evil, lazy bureaucrats” vilified on TV. She said:

"If I lose my job, I don’t think I’ll rush to find another. No, instead, I want to spend my days spreading kindness and compassion."

The room went quiet. We all smiled, moved, inspired.

And then, everything fell into place in my mind.

By focusing on human dignity, she wasn’t excusing unforgivable acts.

She wasn’t ignoring the damage being done by our government.

She was protecting the part of her humanity that believes in goodness—especially her own.

And I realized that if I wanted to survive, if I wanted to continue being of service, I had to keep doing the same.

I reckoned that this was the same tactic I’d been using for years in an attempt to heal from childhood sexual assault and free myself from shame in the hope of remaining whole.

Fighting from abundance, not scarcity.
Resisting without becoming what I despise.

If, as I imagine, we will be fighting this for years, then being strategic with our interactions—rather than reacting to every fire—will be crucial.

And yes, withholding engagement is a privilege. But sometimes, shut the fuck up is also the best way forward—speak to any protest and community organizer.

Because care, compassion, and kindness are a few things that will keep us from becoming what we are fighting against.

We need better strategies than shame.

Sometimes, planting a seed is enough. Other times, gently parenting your conservative, ex-military neighbor who carries a gun at his hip—offering him a space for self-regulation before firmly telling him his choices cost lives—is a revolution in itself.

And sometimes, making a spread of cheese and chocolate and inviting aching friends over to eat and laugh is the most radical act of all.

I wish you all an alcove of peace and sweetness this week.

May you receive my love, as always.
a. xx

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