Have you ever had an old memory arrive out of nowhere? Not because you were looking for it, but because something inside you quietly opened a door you didn’t even know was there. That’s what happened to me this week. I was curled up on the couch reading Mating in Captivity (great read, by the way) by Esther Perel when, without warning, I was transported back almost twenty years to my freshman year of college. I wasn’t thinking about university or jobs or growing up. Yet suddenly I could see myself standing behind a pizza counter in a dining hall, wearing a uniform that never quite fit, and constantly adjusting a hat that was always too big for my tiny head. The strange thing about memories is that your body often remembers before your mind does. As I sat there, I wasn’t just remembering the dining hall. I was remembering how it felt to be me inside that dining hall, and that felt sense wasn’t pleasant. In this week’s blog, I want to share why that memory resurfaced and what it revealed almost two decades later as I finally stopped experiencing that quiet kind of shame that convinces us to become smaller than we really are.
Like many university students, I needed a campus job. Scholarships and loans covered a lot, but not everything, so I applied for every position I could find. I eventually landed a job in one of the busiest dining halls on campus. On paper, it wasn’t a bad job. I served pizza during meal hours, cleaned enormous cooking vats in the kitchen, helped prep ingredients, and did whatever needed doing. I was a stellar employee who showed up on time, worked hard, and was reliable. But I was miserable. It wasn’t because of the work itself, but it was the constant fear of being seen by someone who knew me. I was thoroughly embarrassed about my job.
I remember perpetually scanning the room while serving food, hoping my classmates wouldn’t walk by. If they did, I wanted them to keep walking. I didn’t want eye contact, and I certainly didn’t want conversation. I wanted to disappear. The ill-fitting uniform didn’t help either. The oversized hat kept slipping over my forehead. I spent half my shift adjusting it while trying not to burn my fingers on hot pizza trays. The kitchen itself was overwhelming. The giant pots I scrubbed were bigger than I was. I dreaded cutting frozen fish because, as a lifelong vegetarian, it made every part of me recoil. Not to mention how numb my fingers felt afterward. One shift even ended with a trip to the emergency room after I accidentally spilled boiling water from a pot of perogies down my leg. None of it was glamorous, easy, or rewarding, and looking back, none of those things explain why I dreaded that job so much.
What makes this memory even stranger is that the majority of the work wasn’t new. I’d spent years working at my family’s fast-food restaurant in high school where I swept, mopped, packed, prepared, and worked every weekend and holiday. I’d never been ashamed of any of that. In fact, it was quite the opposite where I was proud of pitching in and helping my family.
So why was the dining hall different? The question stayed with me long after I closed my book that evening. The answer had nothing to do with pizza or uniforms or kitchens, but it had everything to do with who I believed I was.
Freshman year was one of the loneliest seasons of my life. I had been in the country for only four years and felt like someone had plucked me from a semi-known space to a completely unknown space. I was overwhelmed academically. I stood out like a sore thumb with my brown skin and unique name. I held the false belief that nobody else came from a family as dysfunctional as mine. Mostly, I felt like everyone else belonged there except me. Many of my classmates came from prestigious prep schools. Some had parents or grandparents who had attended the university before them, and mine hadn’t even been to college. They seemed confident in a way I wasn’t. All the while, I felt like I had somehow slipped through the admissions office unnoticed and that someone would eventually realize I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Today I know that feeling has a name: Imposter syndrome. Back then, it just felt like me. I didn’t think I was carrying shame. I thought I was shame. There’s an important difference. When shame becomes your identity instead of an emotion you’re experiencing, you begin organizing your life around hiding and pretending. So, I made myself smaller, quieter, and less visible. It felt safer that way. And on the rare occasions that I made myself larger, louder, and more visible, it was for all the wrong reasons.
Looking back now, I don’t think I was embarrassed by the dining hall, but I was embarrassed of myself. That’s a painful sentence to write, but it’s an honest one. I didn’t believe I was enough. Not wealthy enough. Definitely not smart enough. Not polished enough. Not accomplished enough. The dining hall simply became the place where those beliefs felt impossible to hide.
One of the things being in therapy has taught me is that shame loses some of its power the moment we can name it, even before we can fix it or eliminate it. Shame’s existence and recognition are prerequisites to trauma work.
As I write this blog, I understand that the memory of the dining hall didn’t resurface because my brain wanted to torture me. It resurfaced because a part of me finally felt safe enough to look at it with compassion instead of criticism. Today, when I think about that younger version of myself, I don’t wish she had been more confident, but I do wish she had known she didn’t have to earn the right to take up space.
Healing didn’t happen because one day I suddenly loved myself. It happened in hundreds of small moments. Therapy gave me language for what I was experiencing. Movement gave my body somewhere to place emotions that words couldn’t hold. Keeping small promises to myself slowly rebuilt trust. Taking risks, even when they scared me, showed me that discomfort wasn’t the same thing as danger. Most importantly, I changed the way I spoke to myself.
Instead of wondering what was wrong with me, I slowly learnt to ask what happened that made me believe this false narrative about myself. The question itself changed something in me. Moreover, the way I asked it, patiently and kindly, released pent up pressure.
I think we all have our own versions of the dining hall. Maybe yours was a relationship where you constantly apologized for existing. Maybe it was a classroom where you stopped raising your hand. Maybe it’s your workplace today. Or your body. Or your family.
Shame has an incredible way of convincing us that we need to become less of ourselves in order to belong, but belonging is never meant to cost you yourself. If there’s one place I’d invite you to begin, it’s not by trying to silence shame; it’s by becoming curious about it.
Ask where it first learned to speak so loudly. Ask what it’s trying to protect, because underneath shame is almost always someone who simply wanted to feel accepted. Maybe that’s where healing begins, not in becoming someone new, but in gently welcoming back the parts of yourself that learned they had to hide.
This is my small corner where I share what I’m still learning how to hold. Somehow, you might find parts of yourself in it, especially the messy and quiet ones you don’t always show. If you see yourself here, you’re not alone, because we are all working on coming home to ourselves.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni