I’ve been noticing something strange in my therapy sessions.

Whenever my therapist asks a question—especially a gentle, thoughtful one—I often assume there’s some kind of strategy behind it. Like she’s trying to lead me somewhere. But she’s not. She’s just being attuned.

And the truth is, I’m not used to that. I’m not used to someone being so present, so genuinely interested, without an agenda. So my body still braces for impact. Like kindness is a trick. Like attunement has to mean manipulation. Because that’s what it meant, growing up.

She kept asking me where the shame comes from.
And I said—probably my parents.
Then came the quiet, unsaid question:

So is it yours, then?

That stopped me.

Because the shame doesn’t feel like mine—not really. It was handed to me. Formed in rooms where my needs were too much, or my traits were seen as flaws. Where being disorganized or forgetful wasn’t understood, but punished. Where showing emotion wasn’t met with compassion, but control.

And I carried it all as if it were my fault.

But maybe that shame isn’t mine.
Maybe it never was.

Since the last time I sat down with my mother and really named the truth, I’ve noticed something shifting. I’m finding it easier to relate to people. Easier to be seen. I still assume shame will show up—but when I actually get into the interaction, it’s often not there.

I’m realizing now—I’ve made a lot more progress than I give myself credit for.

Maybe my therapist was just gently shining a light on that. Not pushing me. Not guiding me. Just being with me, in a way that I’m slowly learning to trust.

And that’s something I want to give to others too—not advice, not solutions.
Just presence.
Just the gift of being attuned.

Because I’m finally learning how much that matters.