parenting work. Whatever. I was so pissed off.
I paced back and forth in the kitchen, then sat down to pound out an e-mail.
Draft #1 included this line: “Egads! I would never put down someone’s photography, but I’m the shame researcher here.”
Draft #2 included this line: “I checked out your photography online. If you’re concerned about posting bad photos, I’d rethink posting your photos.”
Draft #3 included this line: “If you’re going to send a shitty e-mail, the least you can do is spell-check it. ‘Their’ does not mean ‘they are.’”Mean. Nasty. I didn’t care. But I also didn’t send it. Something in my body stopped me. I read over
my attack e-mails, took a deep breath, and then raced into the bedroom. I threw on my running shoes
and a baseball cap and hit the pavement. I needed to get out of the house and discharge the weird
energy coursing through my veins.
About one mile into my walk, I called my good friend Laura, the friend who happens to appear
with me in said theater picture. I told her about the woman’s e-mail and she gasped, “Are you kidding
me?”
“Nope. I’m not kidding. Wanna hear my three responses? I’m still trying to decide which one to
use.” I recited my “kill and destroy” responses, and she gasped again.
“Brené, those are really ballsy. I couldn’t do it. I’d just be really hurt and probably cry.” Laura and I
talk about heavy stuff all of the time. We have a very comfortable rhythm. We can ping words all over
the place or both get really quiet. We’re always analyzing and saying things like, “Okay, stay with me
... I’m thinking ...” and “Does this make sense?” or “No. No. Wait. It’s coming to me.”
At this point in our conversation, I said, “Laura, don’t say anything. I need to think about what you
just said.” For two or three minutes the only sound was my sweaty panting.
Finally, I said, “You would get your feelings hurt and cry?”
Laura reluctantly responded, “Yes. Why?”
“Well ...,” I hesitated, “I’m thinking that crying and getting my feelings hurt would be the brave
option for me.”
Laura sounded surprised. “What do you mean?”
I explained the best I could. “Mean and nasty is my default setting. It doesn’t take courage for me to
be shaming back. I can use my shame superpowers for evil in a split second. Letting myself feel hurt
—that’s a totally different story. I think your default is my courage.”
We talked about it for a while and decided that Laura’s courage is acknowledging hurt without
running from it, and my courage is acknowledging hurt and not hurting back. We also agreed that
cruelty is never brave—it’s mostly cheap and easy, especially in today’s culture.
After talking for another mile or so, Laura asked, “Okay, now that we’ve got the acknowledging-
hurt thing down, what would be the courageous thing for you to do with this e-mail?”
I fought back tears. “Be hurt. Cry. Tell you about it. Let it go. Delete the e-mail. Don’t even
respond.”
Laura was quiet for a minute; then she blurted out, “Oh my God! That’s shame resilience, right?
You’re practicing courage.”
I was confused, like I had never heard the term before. “Huh? What do you mean?”
Laura patiently said, “Shame resilience—you know—your book? The blue one. The four elements
of shame resilience: Name it. Talk about it. Own your story. Tell the story. Your book.” We both
started laughing. I thought to myself, Holy crap. It works.