A Letter to the Brave:
Dear Brave Soul,
Guilt, Blame, Shame, and Other Things We Aren’t Meant to Carry
You probably don’t feel it right now. You may feel anything but. But you are brave—and you will be brave—because you have to be. And that’s okay.
Brave might not look like strength. It rarely does at first. It might look like collapsing on the bathroom floor, crying so hard you forget what started it. Brave might look like sending a text that says “I can’t do this alone,” or dragging yourself out of bed to face another day that doesn’t look anything like the life you signed up for. Brave might look like going to work when you want to scream. Or sitting in silence because the words haven’t found you yet.
And one day, Brave will look like you taking the hand of someone else who’s just arrived in the very place you’re standing in now—lost, confused, aching—and you’ll tell them: “It won’t always feel this way.”
Because it won’t.
I went into my own battle terrified and unprepared. Wide-eyed. Angry. Desperate. I didn’t have the strength people assumed I did. I didn’t want to be strong. I didn’t want to be chosen for this.
I remember sitting alone in my car, numb and shaking, whispering a prayer I wasn’t even sure I believed: God, if you’re even real, you got the wrong person.
I told Him, This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m not built for this. I’ve got other people to care for. Other things I was going to do with my life. You made a mistake.
And quietly, in the background of that anger, shame crept in.
I believed—deep down—that this thing I was facing, this pain, this devastation, was somehow my fault. That I must’ve missed a sign. Made a wrong decision. Done something that disqualified me from peace. I started reviewing old choices like evidence in a trial I was sure I’d lose.
If that’s where you are—feeling punished, abandoned, misunderstood—I want to say this as clearly as I can:
This isn’t your fault.
Pain doesn’t mean punishment. Suffering doesn’t mean failure. The ache you’re carrying isn’t proof of anything except the depth of your love and your humanity.
You may feel alone. But I promise you’re not.
There are people—quiet warriors—who are surviving losses, diagnoses, heartbreaks, divorces, betrayals, and grief so loud it echoes. People who are also brushing their teeth while holding back tears. People who are walking into hospitals, courtrooms, therapists’ offices, empty bedrooms… and walking out changed.
And slowly, over time, some of them stop fighting for the life they thought they were supposed to have—and begin building a life with what’s actually in their hands.
That’s not giving up. That’s grieving forward. That’s bravery.
Shame will try to follow you on this journey. It will whisper:
You should’ve known. You should’ve been better. Stronger. Smarter. Kinder. Quieter. Louder.
It will throw everything at you. Past decisions. Words spoken in anger. The things you didn’t say. The moments you didn’t show up. The things you couldn’t control.
But here’s the truth: Guilt has a job. It tells us when we’ve done wrong so we can make it right. But shame? Shame is a liar. Shame says you are wrong. It says your story disqualifies you. It tells you to hide.
And I want to gently tell you this: You are allowed to stop hiding.
The “you” on the other side of this pain is not weaker or less worthy. She is more compassionate, more grounded, more real.
You don’t have to carry blame for things beyond your control. You don’t have to hold onto guilt for choices you made with the knowledge you had at the time. And you don’t have to make yourself smaller just because life got hard.
One day, without realizing it, you may wake up and discover you’ve stopped obsessing over the “why” and started focusing on the “what now?” One day, you’ll catch yourself laughing. Or daydreaming. Or caring about something simple—like your coffee being just right or what shoes you’re going to wear. And it won’t feel like betrayal to the pain. It will feel like healing.
You will survive this. Not unchanged—but not ruined either.
Find your people. Seek out those who are walking a similar path so you can cry together. And find those a few steps ahead so you can let them remind you that it won’t always be this hard.
The pain won’t vanish. But neither will your resilience.
You are not broken. You are not cursed. This isn’t a punishment. It’s not a test of your faith or your worth or your goodness.
This is just life—life in its raw, unfair, heartbreaking form. And somehow, even here, you are still worthy of joy. Still worthy of love. Still allowed to take up space. Still allowed to hope.
So breathe.
Just this breath.
You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t have to be okay tomorrow. You don’t have to climb the whole mountain tonight. You just have to keep moving. One messy, sacred, exhausted step at a time.
You’ve got this.
With love,
Dr. Zoe Shaw
P.S If these words landed in your heart, I wrote more just like them in my upcoming book. You can pre-order it here.
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