Recently, I was bra shopping with Two. As we walked up to the display, she exclaimed, “Mom, shopping for bras is so embarrassing!”

“Why?” I asked. “Half the world is made up of women and girls. They all have breasts or will grow breasts as they get bigger. How is that embarrassing?”

Her response was something along the lines of, “Well, when you put it like that…”

I remember being a preteen and teen and how Embarrassing so many things felt. It felt Embarrassing whenever I thought I said or did or wore the wrong thing. It felt Embarrassing just to exist in the same space as my parents, perhaps because I was more aware of my self-absorption when they were around.

Feelings were Big, and the world was ripe for life-ruining experiences with a warm layer of Embarrassment that felt like it would never fade.

I see this dynamic in the lives of my two oldest kids.

One relishes attending a school where no one knows he’s part of a big, homeschooling family. The only sibling his teachers have seen is Seven, who comes to parent-teacher conferences with me. One can pretend he is from a Normal Family, and no one is the wiser.

Two is more open about her Embarrassing experiences. “That’s so Embarrassing!” is a regular refrain for her. It’s understandable: at her age we assume everyone else is thinking about us as much as we are.

It’s ok to feel embarrassed, as long as we don’t dwell there. You stay long enough to realize either yes, you did something socially unacceptable in public, or no, you didn’t, or, as you get older: Maybe, probably? But who cares? No one even noticed.

I have greatly enjoyed the perspective age has brought to what counts as Embarrassing as an adult. The answer? Very little. I no longer have a Most Embarrassing Moment. I can’t even remember what my Most Embarrassing Moment used to be. It is so freeing.

But while I’ve been able to get some distance from the feeling of Embarrassment for the most part, a harder thing to escape is shame. Maybe that’s because it’s much easier for the Devil to use shame on adults than it is to use Embarrassment. Embarrassment doesn’t work as well as it used to; it’s a juvenile trick.

Shame, on the other hand, digs its claws deep into your heart. Instead of Embarrassing, which is about something you did or said, shame is about who you are. We can’t change who we are. So if there is something fundamentally wrong with me – and there must be, because I feel ashamed! – then what in the world can I do to fix that?

The answer is one of those frustrating ones because we can know it, but it is so hard to live it. The only way to fight shame is with Capital T Truth. The Truth is what God says about you and your worth. That you are a precious gift and a unique treasure. You are as valuable as a quivering newborn, full of potential. You can’t earn your worth, because you were born with it.

When I think about my kids, I deeply want them to grow up without the shadow of shame. Sure, there are moments when I’m chastising them for something, and they are looking at me blankly like I’m completely nuts, that I wish I could see a prick of shame in their faces in recognition of a perceived wrong.

But I feel terribly guilty for feeling this way just moments later. Because I’m afraid that little prick of shame will add to the other pricks of shame, maybe ones I’m not even aware of, behind their stone face demeanor. I don’t want it to grow into a monster, a heavy weight that seems to follow them everywhere, crippling their wings.

I’m not convinced any effort on my part would cause me to get that right. Ultimately, I have to trust that the layer of grace over our house will help reduce the mountain of shame that seems to remain in a heap over me – and prevent that mountain from recreating itself in my kids’ lives.

I was reminded again how much of being embarrassed is maturity-related recently when I went to a dance class for adults. Afterward, I walked outside and tried to get into my car, but the key fob wasn’t working. The buttons have been messed up for a little while, and sometimes it’s hard to hear if the car unlocked or not, so I grabbed the handle of the driver’s side door to see if it had unlocked. Then I realized the real owner of the car, another person from the class, was approaching, and then noticed the interior of the car was much nicer than mine and not even the same color. I looked the woman in the eye and smiled at her. “I think I’m trying to get into your car,” I said. She smiled and laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s happened to me, too.” And I turned and walked around the large vehicle next to us that had been blocking my view of my Actual Car. As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I thought about how mortifying that experience would have been in my youth. Now, it didn’t bother me at all.

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Since I wrote this, I’ve been listening to Brené Brown audio books. If you haven’t read her books (or seen her TED talk), she refers to herself as a Shame Researcher. I’m sure when I’m finished with her books, there will be future posts on this topic.