If You Can't Take the Heat

A letter about decisions (for all of us who regret them)

Dearest reader,

This week I find myself thinking about misguided shame.

I had an interesting realization the other day, which led me to ponder whether I haven’t been shaming myself for a variety of “bad choices” that actually weren’t bad choices at all.

The idea that I may have been feeling unnecessarily ashamed of something inconsequential isn’t at all surprising to me. I’m easily embarrassed. The smallest misstep sends searing heat to my cheeks. I even frequently experience proxy embarrassment on behalf of other people’s actions that have absolutely nothing to do with me.

Sigh.

Anyhow, my realization has led me to disentangle and ultimately ease a source of shame that I’ve been carrying around with me for more than twenty years. I think you may find it helpful in your journey as well, so I’d like to share it with you. 

Full disclosure: This month’s letter includes a little bit of storytime. 

So get snuggled in, friends, and allow me to begin.

Get Out of the Kitchen

When I was 16 years old, I signed up to work in the kitchen of a summer camp. 

For years, I spent summers at this camp as a camper, and, being the precocious kid I was, I often dreamed about the day when I would be old enough to transition from camper to Employee. 

The kitchen had the youngest barrier to entry of all the camp jobs, and, ever eager to grow up as fast as possible, I signed on to work there without much understanding of what the job would entail. 

Mostly, I was excited to have a little bit of independence (kitchen workers were free to go out with friends in the evenings, and since you were away from your parents there was no supervision of where you went) and to earn some money (though most of the paycheck, admittedly, was allocated to food and housing).

I arrived at camp with the highest of hopes, pulling into the parking lot late afternoon on a Saturday.

My first evening was free to do as I wished, and shortly after I got my bunk set up, my best friend (who had started working there earlier in the summer) and her new friends (who seemed very cool) invited me to drive to the Kee to Bala, a popular bar located 45 minutes away from camp. 

This was the moment I had been waiting for! 

It was here already! 

Unsupervised outings!

Staying up late!

Meeting boys!

Sneaking drinks!

Being BAD TO THE BONE!

But, sitting in the backseat of a beater car, driving crazy fast along a windy cottage road, with music blaring, too little air, and too much jostling, my chronic, lifelong motion sickness began to catch up with me. Pangs of embarrassment and panic tempered the waves of nausea as I strained to find the horizon line out the window.

Though I somehow managed to withhold my puke, I felt super sick the remainder of the evening. We stayed out until late, returning to camp sometime after midnight as I remember it, with me having white-knuckled the whole ride back.

I climbed into my bunk, laid on top of the 3-inch leather mattress and tried to sleep.

Reality Hits

The thing about working in a kitchen that serves breakfast to thousands of people every day is that you have to start work at 4:45 am. 

Then you must simmer in the smell of frying bacon, unloading dishes from an industrial dishwasher that blows steam into your eyes, all while listening to people shouting, pots crashing, water boiling, fans whirring, and a chef looking over your shoulder urging you to go faster because the dishes emerging from the conveyor belt are shooting out too fast and building up a backlog and you are edging ever closer to a catastrophic “I Love Lucy” moment in which all the plates crash around you as you cry.

 

The thing about being a highly sensitive person working in a kitchen at 4:45 am is that if you don’t get a solid 8 hours of sleep, are overstimulated by noise and smells, and generally shut down when someone yells at you, you will lose your fucking shit.

By the end of my first shift, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew – just KNEW – that this was not going to work out.

The very thing I’d been so excited about for so many years, evidently, was a very, very bad fit for me.

The Struggle

The thing about summer camp is that it is literally their whole jam to convince people who are homesick to JUST FUCKING STICK IT OUT BECAUSE THE FUN IS COMING! 

It’s a culture built on the foundation of pushing through discomfort, extending your understanding of what you’re capable of, enhancing your independence, and proving to yourself that you can, in fact, do hard things. All admirable, valuable tenets.

And so, when you are 16 and go to the camp office to tell them that you will be quitting the job they hired you for months earlier– after just one shift – they make you sit with them for 45 minutes, imploring you to stay. 

Friends, they have Been. Here. Before. 

They have sat in these very chairs and chatted with countless homesick people who are convinced after the first day that they are in the wrong place.

Time and time again, they have successfully persuaded these people to stay. 

They have watched these people blossom and flourish and gain skills and experiences and be so glad they decided not to leave.

And so, when you arrive at the office intent on leaving, they are convinced that, like the other people, you just need a few more weeks of hellish torture until it begins to feel like normal and your nervous system just decides to play dead for long enough that you can complete your employment agreement.

As someone who was generally a pushover, embarrassed to ask for what I wanted, and easily swayed to surrender to authority, I was primed to just nod my head, return to my bunk, and prepare for a month of dissociating from my body. 

But instead, I did something weird.

For some reason beyond my comprehension, I insisted that I needed to return home. 

I explained that I knew this wouldn’t get better with time.

No, I didn’t care if the kitchen would be short staffed – this just wasn’t for me.

The camp operations officer again and again told me that I needed to stay. 

Again and again, I stated my feelings. 

I repeated myself until she relented. 

I was free.

…Kind of.

Next I had to call home and convince my mother to come pick me up. Typically, she might have immediately said yes. But she had family staying over – family who believed in HOLDING FIRM TO A COMMITMENT and that THIS IS AN IMPORTANT EXPERIENCE FOR KYRA TO BECOME MORE INDEPENDENT. 

The conversation was similar to the tennis match I’d had in the office – my mother imploring me to stay, and me insisting that I needed to leave. 

As I remember, discussion ended when I informed her that if she did not pick me up, I would take my luggage and walk along the highway by myself. 

The next morning, my mom’s minivan pulled up and I left.

The Shame of Advocating for What You Need

When you hear this story, what emotions does it stir in you? 

What’s your read on the situation? 

For me, this story has sat like a lump in my stomach for 24 years since. It’s been a point of such intense embarrassment that I literally never spoke of it again. I don’t even think I’ve told my husband about it.

Though at the time I was so strong in my convictions, later on, at home in my bedroom, I beat myself up for leaving. 

l digested the story as yet another situation where I was too weak to withstand a task that so many other people found easy.

I looked at it as a story about me flaking out on a commitment.

I looked at it as a story about me being spoiled, dramatic, needy, and an embarrassment to my summer camp, my best friend, and my family. 

I looked at it as a story about me leaving home, proud and excited, and returning 24 hours later with my tail between my legs, having given up when things got hard.

Until the other day.

For some reason, as I was in the shower, an image popped into my head from that day: I was standing in the bank of phone booths, surrounded by forest, inserting a quarter and dialling my home phone number, swatting away mosquitos, twisting the phone cord and counting the ringtones while rehearsing how I would tell my mom that I needed her to come pick me up.

Instantly, I was hit with the same pang of shame I’ve always associated with this event. 

Geez. How embarrassing. I was such a flake. If I’d stuck it out a few more weeks like everyone wanted, I probably would have had such a great time… made so many friends… become more independent… gotten stronger…

And then, something different happened.

I asked:

“Would I have though? 

Would I have had a good time? 

…Or would this just have been yet another experience of overriding my gut instincts and forcing myself to stay in an uncomfortable situation?”

The question gave me pause for thought. 

As I examined further, through a different lens, I began to see that another way to look at it is: 

This is an example of 16-year-old Kyra having a gut feeling and advocating for what was right for her – even when everyone else thought it was wrong.

Over the years, I’d come to associate advocating for my needs with deep shame – especially when my needs were at odds with the needs or beliefs of others.

But standing in the shower, I felt that association slacken a bit.

Never Say Never – But I’ll Never Work in a Kitchen Again

When I was 16, I didn’t know that I was a highly sensitive person, or an introvert. 

I didn’t know that my need for lots of quiet time, alone time, deep thinking time, wasn’t just a preference but a deep physiological requirement necessary for the proper functioning of my body and mind.

Today, I’m fortunate enough to work from home, quietly tippy-tapping on my keyboard from my couch all day, under a blanket, with a cup of tea, next to my sleeping dog, happy as a clam.

I wouldn’t ever take another job in a loud, busy, hot environment again, because I know more about myself than I did then.

And so, how could I possibly shame my younger self for her decision, when she knew so much less about herself, about her needs, and yet still insisted that her voice be heard?

What could possibly be wrong about that?

Had she known more about herself, she might have made slightly different choices, that might have led to slightly different outcomes – sure. 

Maybe she would have worked in housekeeping instead of the kitchen; they started work later and generally worked alone. 

Or, maybe she wouldn’t have gone out at night knowing that she needs lots of sleep for healthy functioning. 

Or, maybe she wouldn’t have worked at summer camp at all. Maybe she would have taken on some more babysitting jobs or tried to join the team at a bookstore.

As I look back on her choice, it causes me to reflect on my current choices as well. 

• Where am I continuing to deny my needs, because I’m ashamed to admit them? 

• Where am I afraid to be truthful about my capabilities, for fear that I’ll be perceived as weak if they’re different from the capabilities of those around me? 

• Where am I carrying memories of unnecessary shame, and how can I work to repair those associations?

I’m curious: Do you carry any unnecessary shame around? Are there decisions you’ve made that you’ve coloured with regret, that might be instead worth re-examining in the light of now knowing who you are and what you need? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

Sending you so, so much love.

Kyra

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