The Shame in Growing Up

Photo by on Sebastian Herrmann on Unsplash

Back when I was around 10-years-old, I remember the first time my piano teacher came over to my home. I remember my mom and I inviting him in with a warm welcome, smiles on our faces.

And then I remember pausing, as he did as well.

He looked up at the roof of my house before reluctantly taking off his shoes to step inside.

That’s when I followed his gaze.

The cracks on the walls, the stains on the roof.

As if he was worried, my childhood home might just collapse any second on top of his head.

I pretended as if I didn’t notice. I pretended as if it didn’t strike me.

I remember my mother crying in the old, dingy living room that we’ve truly made our comfort zone. One hand resting on the tear of the sofa we had for longer than I’ve been alive, the other on her thigh, inches away from the Bible sitting on the rusty table in front.

We were going to lose our home.

Debt ran too deep, and there was no way we’d be able to pay the bank off in time. And so our house was on the line.

Sure, my house had never been something I was proud of. It was never something that I boasted to my friends, unlike some rich kids in the class who were drawing outlines of what their grand bedrooms looked like. But still, it was never something that I had thought to be ashamed of. I’d invite friends over from school without thinking twice, and I’d run up the stairs with excitement as I got back from school, the sun shining through the windows.

I remember in that moment, really acknowledging for the first time in my 10 years of life, that wow, we didn’t have money.

It was a bit strange, that wave of awareness.

I’d realized why my big sister was selling snacks and stationaries at school, even when it wasn’t allowed, and she’d get made fun of by her friends, called into the school’s office for it. I’d realized why I’d always be the one to listen and never speak, as the school holidays ended, and all my friends excitedly shared stories of their travels. I wouldn’t have any tales such as those. I’d realized why my parents made us take the school bus, even when my friends arrived at school with their luxury cars, even when I cried and complained about it.

It was not something that I felt ashamed of, but hell, did it hurt.

By God’s grace, we made it out of that situation.

It was a slow, painful process. And it took time, that’s for sure.

But somehow, we managed to buy back our home, pay off our debts, and escape very nearly, from being a homeless family of 5. We even bought a new house a few years after. And it was such a strange feeling, to have friends come over and gush over how beautiful my room was, how they would love to have a home like mine.

Because just a few years ago, it was a complete 180.

And that’s when I realized, that times have changed. And I have grown up, alongside everybody else in my family.

Yet deep down, I felt the exact same way I did when I was younger.

I had not changed.

For some reason, the wave of shame had only hit then.

Not because I had grown up under unfortunate circumstances, but because I couldn’t shake off the person I was before.

I still had that old mindset with me. I couldn’t dare to live comfortably, even in comfortable conditions such as now.

I feel shame for spending money. I feel shame for going to a good school. I feel shame for the sadness that I still experience when I think of those days when I didn’t.

For the life of me, I couldn’t let go of that trauma. And that embedded a deep shame within me, this deep insecurity. Knowing that I’ll never be the same as my peers who are well off, even when we look similar from an outsider’s point of view. It was always having that sense of awareness, that no matter how hard I try, to fit in and mingle with other people my age, there will always be this gap between me and them. Almost a disparity gap, within my soul.

I feel scared, and I’m always overthinking. I wonder if people today judge me for what I wear, how I carry myself in public, and the ways I present myself to different kinds of people.

I’m constantly anxious, so self-conscious, because I feel poor. Not in wealth or material things, but in spirit.

Other people always seem like they’re doing better than me, and it never feels like what I’m doing is good enough to bridge that gap. I am careful in what I say and how I say it, because I don’t want to be perceived as that girl anymore. The girl who lived in a broken home, one that you would not dare to step into.

It eats away at my brain. It amplifies itself as the years go by, and I feel it in my ears: ‘Just grow up.’

I’m proud of my family. I’m proud of my roots. I’m proud of where I came from.

But I’m not proud of who I was.

And I hate the fact that I just can’t seem to move on from it.

Today I am great. Someday I’ll be even better. But I hope the monsters in the closet will stop taunting me with yesterday.

Maybe it will take a few more years. Maybe I will never even escape from it. But someday, I’d hope to open the doors with my chin lifted high, and a true confidence, to welcome you in.

There’s a shame in growing up.

It’s different from how I thought it would be.