The labels we define ourselves with come from different sources, usually outside ones. It is by being in relation to others that we learn about ourselves.

Adjectives like “shy” or “radical” were often used to describe me. Often as negative personality characteristics and, therefore, often used as a prompt for correction.

Those words were utterly devoid of any objective or neutral meaning. They were charged with shame. My shyness around strangers made me a shamefully shy person, and my radical opinions a shamefully radical individual. And so I spent every ounce of energy:

1. a) trying to hide it
2. b) trying to correct it

That was an awful amount of energy, leaving me depleted and unable to be just relaxed or content. 

There is no rest for the wicked.

And here is the thing. We perceive some of those labels as something often sinful, wicked. Shame does that.

The shaping power of shame

And the vicious cycle begins. I am ashamed of my shyness, and I try to hide it from others, leaving me disconnected from myself because, deep down, I know I’m just pretending. Or work hard to correct my behaviour which leaves me frustrated and hurt. Either way means I am rejecting something from me, something I perceive as a part of me, which gives it power over me. 

That particular trait is trying to tell me something, and I keep trying to avoid it or silence it, so it will keep trying to stay with me until I hear what it has to say.

Hiding, avoiding, and correcting is the worst way to diffuse something that makes us uncomfortable or hurt. Imagine a kid having a tantrum and the parent shouting back at them, or, hell, imagine feeling angry at someone and them telling you to “calm down”. It’s similar. By rejecting labels (behaviours) we identify with, we give them a hold on us, make that unwelcome and unacceptable behaviour stay with us, and in consequence, give them power over us. 

Meaning is subjective. Meaning is given. The power of reframing.

It’s the meaning we make them have. Or rather, the meaning others told us they have.

Of course, shyness can be painful, but it’s also beautiful, gentle, and thoughtful. Shyness can make a conversation stumble but also can make it slow and meaningful. 

It was only when, not many years ago, I decided to embrace “shyness” as something that is a part of me, without shame, that things started to shift. I went from whispering apologies for my shyness to proudly stating, “Hi, I’m Maria, and I’m shy”, AA-style. A statement that went from being uttered with a quivery voice to matter-of-factly as I was repeating it over and over. It started to feel like describing my eye colour but, unlike my unchanged brown eyes, my shyness ended up not being true.

It came as a surprise when, years after I started self-proclaiming myself as a shy person, which ended the lifetime of shame about being one, I realised that “I was not shy”. Do I feel shy in certain situations or around certain people? Definitely. Do I feel defined by it like I would when I talk about the colour of my eyes? No. 

Because I finally understood that my shyness exists in relation to others (their expectations about desired behaviour and beliefs of what’s good vs bad behaviour), it has a comparative nature, it does not exist in a vacuum, and it most certainly doesn’t have an inherently negative meaning.

We are all shaped by our environment, like any other living being in nature, but unlike any other living being, we have the sometimes bad habit of attaching meaning to the shapes, birthmarks or scars we are given. What would happen if we didn’t make those shapes, marks or scars mean anything? What if we observe our given traits and labels and accept them as partially true? As, “Thanks for sharing your perception of me”, with no sarcastic undertone, just appreciation. 

What would change if we accepted our given shapes, marks and scars as something real but malleable and not as something we need to hide or change to be worthy of life and love (are they not the same, life and love?)

I read a poem the other day, “Paperweight” by Ryan Teitman, and it moved me. The acceptance, the lightness, the love.

Paperweight
by Ryan Teitman

Every few months or so, I turn into a rock. First, my joints stiffen as if there’s weather coming. Then, I get the urge to read some doorstop novel. Finally, I become a rock. A smallish one, usually. My wife isn’t surprised anymore. She picks me up from the kitchen floor or the driveway and sets me on her desk as a paperweight. It’s nice to have a singular purpose. I’m glad I don’t become a brick or, God forbid, a stone. When I’m a rock, I appreciate so many things I don’t otherwise notice. Silence so intricate it sounds like music. A breeze moving through the room like a dancer stretching her limbs. Eventually, after a few days or weeks, I become a person again. I go back to reading my book; I spend the weekend cleaning leaves from the gutters. But at night, when my wife is asleep, I sneak downstairs and set my hand atop a stack of mail. I wait there, as still as possible, until sunrise. I don’t want to lose my touch.

Talk about acceptance. What changes when our loved ones matter-of-factly accept our roughness, almost like we look at naked trees or flowerless plants in winter without judgment because we know that’s what winter looks like for them? 

What would change if we accepted all of ourselves in the same way?

There is impermanence in personality traits. Also, there is truth in them. But that truth is always partial when we are given the acceptance and the space also not to be. We can be shy and bold, radical and moderate, but we can only be both and everything in between when we accept all the parts. This is what it means to be whole, to be this and that and everything in between, and to not be anything at all.

Reflective Prompt 

– Every …x time, I turn into a …
– Explain your point of view or how you experience life from there.