Unlearning shame

A toxic negative emotion and false belief you are unworthy of love, connection and support because there is something wrong innately with you

Trigger warning: this story is vulnerable, brutally honest, and discusses suicide.

Nausea

It is a Saturday afternoon. I’m sitting at 3 pm, drinking a coffee, recovering from stress and anxiety-induced vomiting. Why am I stressed? I’m anxious because, here in Scotland, we are facing a rental housing emergency. A few months ago, my landlord served me notice, stating that she intends to sell. I’m panicking, and struggling to find anywhere to live. This problem affects the entire country; we were declared a rental housing emergency in late 2023, shortly after I moved back from NZ. There is mass homelessness across the UK.

There are FOR SALE signs everywhere. Rents have rocketed. Demand for rentals far exceeds supply. There are over 5,000 families in emergency accommodation in Edinburgh. Last year, the council built only 400 homes, a 50% decrease from the previous year.

Having just viewed another shit hole full of black mould that triggered my allergies and left me wretching, I wonder: how bad can this get? The Minister of Housing appears to have done absolutely nothing about the emergency that emptied my bank account and devastated my physical and mental health.

I write this with a smile on my face, recalling when I wrote to my local MP and Minister of Housing complaining about current policies, mass homelessness, and the suicide risk, and asked, What are you doing about this? I may have accidentally addressed him as the Minister of Homelessness and hit send. I have a habit of speaking my mind.

A series of unfortunate events

Three years ago, almost to the day, after thirteen years in NZ, I moved “home” to Scotland. I moved home with the equivalent of a house deposit and with the dreams of buying a house, progressing my career, meeting a partner, and starting a family. I was recovering from a skiing accident and an abusive relationship that left me with CPTSD and severe depression. It wasn’t an impulsive decision; I agonised over the move. I was 34, approaching 35, and I knew I needed to decide where to settle down. I was petrified because I come from an abusive family from whom I am estranged (hence the CPTSD), and have no relational support. Having left Scotland aged 21, I was returning to few friends. I was starting again.

I sought advice from a former colleague (and friend), the Managing Director of a service design agency for which I had consulted years ago when I returned home for six months. I shared my anxieties and sought reassurance. “You will have no problems getting work, there is heaps of work out there.” “People are open to reduced hours and remote working after COVID, you won’t have to move to London.” “You won’t be alone, I will go for a wine with you.”

None of this proved to be true.

Instead, I landed to a rental housing emergency, a cost-of-living crisis, a recession, and the death of the design industry as we knew it. As things escalated, she shushed me with toxic positivity, “Keep calm, work will come, you won’t end up homeless. Just be positive.” I had just been fucked over by a corporate consultancy and left without work the day before I was due to start (cheers to the women in leadership at EY Seren), and was haemorrhaging over £3k per month in rent in temporary accommodation. Needless to say, we are no longer friends, and I have zero respect for her.

Later, she would ring me up only to complain about how she couldn’t sell their second house, having just cashed in on their Edinburgh townhouse, kicked their tenant out so they could move in and sell, adding to the emergency. The market was crashing. Meanwhile, I had been forced to leave the country, all my belongings were in a shipping container, I was living out of a suitcase, staying with a good friend in Finland, and going mental. “I know how unsettling it is not having a permanent home.” Her privilege as a second-home owner was somehow a basis of comparison with someone actively experiencing homelessness.

Altogether, I spent 11 months effectively homeless and living out of a bag, unable to find somewhere to live in Scotland. I lost tens of thousands trying to keep a roof over my head in temporary accommodation. But housing was not my only problem.

The situation escalated to the point where it’s so ridiculous that it borders on unbelievable - it would make a great dark comedy sketch. Without a permanent address, I was unable to register with a GP, who require a tenancy agreement, three months’ bills, and proof that you have been living in their catchment area. I was running out of medication. When I rang 111, they told me that I would need to pay for a private GP or psychiatrist if I wanted my medication. It is a medication with life-threatening withdrawal. Unable to access it, I landed in A&E having had a seizure. My friend, with whom I was staying when driving me to the hospital, handed me a Coke. “You need sugar, Leanne.” It turned out she had mistakenly taken a can of beer from the fridge. We laughed. It was dark.

The loss of work left me with few options. I found myself effectively excluded from my career due to new policies mandating active security clearance to work with, or for, the government, which accounts for 80% of the work in my former field. ACTIVE SC ESSENTIAL read every job post. The remaining 20% of corporate work vanished during the recession, meaning consultancies like Frog and Livework had to downscale and offer redundancy. This, together with “You are too senior” and “We need someone based in London”, led to a premature end to my career. I went dark on design and fell deeper into the rabbit hole of depression.

I remember the day I went into Universal Credit and was wrongfully excluded from support, told, “They changed the rules to stop people like you coming back using our NHS and claiming benefits.” I left ashamed and in tears. I came home to buy a house and progress my career. I left thinking to myself that, having led the transformation of benefits systems in another country, I had never imagined being on the other side. The UK parliamentary ombudsman considered £500 to be a sufficient amount of compensation. Sorry you ended up effectively homeless and suicidal, this should cover the damages.

As a returning UK citizen, I was excluded from British society. Housing, healthcare, employment and access to services are all basic human needs. It caused my physical and mental health to collapse. I have since spent thousands on private NHS healthcare; without it, I am certain I would have died.

I hate needles, but drugs were necessary.

Toxic shame

And yet I feel shame. Shame for being excluded, exploited and victimised. Shame for losing three years of my life battling alone. Shame for having everything I worked for taken from me at 34 and walking away from my career. Shame for being persistent, outspoken, and for daring to tell my story.

Vulnerability feels like a paradox. Every time I “overshare,” I fear judgment and wait for someone to attack me in the comments. Whenever I ask for help, the next day, I feel overwhelmed with intense guilt and shame. And each time I reveal my vulnerability, I know I’m exposing myself to narcissistic predators who see me as an easy target for exploitation, putting me on edge. Vulnerability attracts abuse.

Society teaches us that we must save face to keep our reputations and avoid others losing respect for us. Not only is this unhealthy coping mechanism a recipe for chronic stress and depression, but it is also a barrier to help-seeking behaviour and raises the risk of suicide. Saving face is not healthy.

According to Brené Brown, shame is a toxic negative emotion based on the false belief that you are unworthy of love, connection, help, or support because there is something innately wrong with you. Shame needs silence to thrive. While vulnerability invites connection, shame creates disconnection, leaving people suffering in silence and alone. If I were to pick the biggest red flag for the sign of suicide, it would be silence. Also significant weight loss and anorexia…

Role modelling how not to save face - at rock bottom in hospital.

Shame is central in CPTSD. It is often rooted in exposure to narcissism, a lack of empathy, emotional abuse, cruelty, scapegoating and abandonment. It is linked to a small part of the brain called the lateral habenula, which responds to reward, social punishment, rejection and disappointment. When someone faces persistent victimisation, exclusion or rejection, this part of the brain becomes hyperactive.

This overactivity leads to rejection sensitivity, a symptom common in depression, CPTSD, BPD, PMDD and social anxiety disorder. It also contributes, through social anxiety, to eating disorders, body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria. Contrary to social media advocacy, rejection sensitivity is not a symptom of ADHD; it is a trauma response. You are not born with a brain sensitised to rejection. The beliefs that you are fundamentally “broken,” a “failure,” or “worthless” are listed in the CPTSD diagnostic criteria under negative self-concept.

At the heart of toxic shame is self-blame. After being repeatedly victimised, and being on the receiving end of mental health stigma, toxic positivity, avoidance or friends ghosting you, you might conclude “I’m the problem.” Self-blame becomes shame, which ultimately escalates into depression and CPTSD, accompanied by intense feelings of failure, worthlessness, and being broken or beyond help.

Shame and powerlessness go hand in hand. Learned helplessness is a phenomenon where a person who is repeatedly traumatised learns that their efforts to escape are futile, and they stop seeking help. Studies by Seligman in the 1960s showed that when dogs were repeatedly shocked, later, when the door was held open, they would not try to escape. Chronic trauma and social defeat lead to feelings of powerlessness, helplessness and hopelessness. The mind gives up.

Before I moved back from NZ, I was earning over £1k per day, coaching C-suite executives through a new service launch. Now I sit here numb, in shock, unable to comprehend how this happened. There isn’t a day I don’t regret moving home. I blame myself constantly for taking bad advice. I replay that sliding doors moment when I boarded the plane, wondering what if I could turn the clock back? The critic in my head tells me I’m a failure, an impostor, not good enough, and a fool for believing I’d be OK.

A few weeks ago, I snapped, and I had a mental health crisis. The reflection that I’m fast approaching 38 and menopause, and have lost my career, the chance to buy a home, meet a partner, and have a child, left me in despair. The prospect of 160 propranolol and a bottle of wine seemed more appealing than fighting to deliver the service I have been building for ADHD and autistic women. My psychiatrist, a lovely man with a brilliant sense of humour and warm smile, sat me down and chucked his hat at me.

“Leanne, many people like you were made victims in this crisis. It’s not your fault.”

When he said it, I broke. Tears streamed down my cheeks. The fluffy hat I held between my fingers was comforting.

Rationally, I know it’s not my fault that the UK government mismanaged the housing supply and introduced policies that caused a rental housing emergency and mass homelessness. It’s not my fault that the NHS is underfunded, and I, like so many neurodivergent women, unwell due to toxic stress, have been excluded from healthcare. Nor is it my fault that the government introduced policies that excluded me from my career, and the recession hit.

Shame is internalised mental health stigma, social exclusion, and familial abandonment during a crisis. The shame I feel comes from being persistently told I am unworthy of love, connection and support because I am unwell, have CPTSD and depression, and was abandoned by my family. It’s from being constantly gaslighted by family members, dismissed by incompetent doctors, and let down by a broken system. It is from battling through trauma alone.

Someone recently said to me, “Leanne, women need to hear your voice; they need your courage.”

When we think about the women we admire most, it isn’t women who act like men, repress their emotions, hide their vulnerability through stoicism or toxic positivity. The real heroine is the woman who talks openly about the realities of being victimised and the journey towards healing. Speaking out about trauma takes courage. It challenges stigma, holds perpetrators and systems to account, and transforms pain into purpose.

Deep down, I don't believe I have anything to be ashamed of. I firmly believe that it isn’t about how we fall - it is about how we get back up. I have since come to realise that all those references on my LinkedIn profile, which speak to my strengths, are because people are drawn to my creativity, authenticity, and courage. You can take my career, but you cannot take my intelligence or my bravery. From adversity can come immense strength.

The Papageno effect is a phenomenon where people who survive suicidal crises tell their story and how they got through it, which reduces the suicide rate. Courage is contagious. If you are struggling right now, know you are not alone. Me too. Depression is not a personality flaw or sign of weakness. Depression is a sign that someone has had to be strong for far too long.

That I am still here is triumphant.

A deep thank you to the doctors who have worked so hard to keep me here. I am crying with gratitude as I write this.

About the author

Hello, I am Leanne. I am a late-diagnosed neurodivergent (woman!), Positive Psychology Coach, and the founder of More Human. More Human is on a mission to close the gender gap in ADHD and autism recognition and diagnosis, widen access to good support, and create equal opportunity.

More Human are launching the first strengths-based ADHD and autism self-identification service for ADHD and autism in adult women, non-binary and AFAB. Over the past several months, I have been working with what is now 267 neurodivergent women to conduct research into their lived experience, co-design, and test a breakthrough service. As a brave survivor diagnosed with CPTSD, I feel privileged to lead this work.

I need your help to keep going.

3 ways you can support my work and help me deliver this breakthrough service

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3. Book 1-1 positive psychology coaching with me - see my LinkedIn references. I’m awesome. (UK funding is available through Access to Work)

Thank you for your support.

Leanne.