Squirming at memories, like a quick dig in the gut, followed by kicking myself or just blushing. “How could I have?” Or “Did I really?” How is it the smallest detail of those moments is minutely recorded, while I often have to be reminded of words of praise?

Is it because we need to believe we are good people, though that doesn't cover the time my strapless dress fell down in the middle of the dance floor? Or because we need to be accepted and a snapshot of us through an onlooker's eyes is cringe-making?

I know I have days when these moments come in stabs, rather like breathing with pleurisy. My self-image spirals down, my shoulders curl. For years I tried talking them down, mentally apologizing or just feeling bad.

Then suddenly a ray of sense. Unkind, tactless or selfish acts from my past are recognized and understood. Now when I remember shame-making moments, my recoil is proof that I now know better. An invitation to forgive not only myself, but others when they carelessly hurt me.


About UntraveledRoads

Fascinated by life, looking for answers to chronic pain and finding unexpected gifts. Interested in people, ideas, healing and humour. I am very happily married with three children and a kitten. As English born immigrants to Canada, we have family spread overseas, a daughter in South Africa and one in England. We also run a charity in South Africa to educate black, rural South African Women. Our first girl from a rural township has just graduated as an accountant from Johannesburg University and got a good job in a bank.
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