Unwrapping the Barbed Wire

"Shame is a barbed wire blanket." When I first heard this quote from Jason Jaggard, it stopped me in my tracks. What a visceral, haunting image—something we pull around ourselves for comfort that actually cuts us to ribbons. Anyone who's ever felt the sting of shame knows this paradox intimately. We reach for something to cover our perceived inadequacies, only to find ourselves wounded by the very thing we thought might protect us.

I was reminded of this recently during a workshop I was facilitating. A participant shared a brilliant idea, then immediately followed it with, "Sorry, that's probably stupid". The room grew uncomfortably quiet. We'd all done it—apologised for our existence, diminished our contributions, wrapped ourselves in that barbed wire rather than risk being seen. Later, over coffee, this same person confided that they constantly filter themselves, perpetually afraid of being "found out" as inadequate. "I'm exhausted", they admitted, "but I don't know how to stop".

This conversation isn't unusual in my northern UK world, where our cultural inheritance includes healthy doses of self-deprecation, reserve, and the infamous stiff upper lip (or more likely the working-class flat cap silence!). We're masters of the pre-emptive apology, experts at deflecting genuine compliments. "Oh, this old thing?", "I just got lucky.", "Anyone could have done it." Our discomfort with self-promotion or acknowledgment of success runs deep. While there's charm in our modesty, there's also cost—particularly when healthy humility morphs into debilitating shame.

Shame thrives in silence and secrecy. It whispers that we're fundamentally flawed in ways others aren't. And here's the devastating irony: while we're desperately hiding our perceived flaws, we're also craving authentic connection—the very thing shame makes impossible. We cannot genuinely connect while maintaining a façade. The barbed wire that seems to protect us actually keeps us isolated.

I want to explore shame's complex relationship with authenticity—how it develops, why we cling to it, what it costs us, and most importantly, how we might begin to unwrap ourselves from its painful embrace. This isn't about banishing shame entirely (an unlikely proposition), but rather developing resilience to it, learning to recognise its voice, and choosing a more authentic way of being. Because while shame may be universal, living perpetually entangled in barbed wire is a choice we don't have to make.

Understanding the Barbed Wire

Before we can unwrap the barbed wire, we need to understand what it is. Shame is often confused with guilt, but the distinction matters tremendously. Guilt says, "I did something bad". Shame says, "I am bad". One addresses behaviour; the other attacks identity. Guilt can motivate positive change; shame typically paralyses.

Shame develops early. According to various research, by age two or three, children begin experiencing this complex emotion, initially tied to disappointed caretakers or unmet expectations. Cultural context shapes it further. In Britain, our shame often manifests differently than in more expressive cultures. We're less likely to display obvious shame signals (head down, slumped posture) and more likely to hide behind humour, understatement, or what psychologists call "shame-pride conversions"—transforming our shame into quiet superiority or disconnection.

"We don't do emotion", a colleague once quipped to me. "We do weather reports, property prices, and passive aggression". While that's an oversimplification, our cultural discomfort with emotional vulnerability creates fertile ground for shame to flourish undetected. Our class consciousness compounds this—the fear of being "common", using the wrong fork, pronouncing words incorrectly, or otherwise revealing that one doesn't "belong". These anxieties are fundamentally shame-based, focusing not on specific behaviours but on perceived innate deficiencies.

The brain's response to shame is particularly telling. Neuroimaging studies reveal that shame activates many of the same neural pathways as physical pain. When someone says "I was mortified", they're not being hyperbolic—the experience genuinely hurts (although the root meaning of mortified may be a little bit of a stretch!). Chronic shame even impacts immune function, stress hormones, and cardiovascular health. The barbed wire doesn't just cut emotionally; it creates literal wounds.

What makes shame particularly insidious is its self-perpetuating nature. Once shame takes hold, we develop adaptations to avoid feeling it—perfectionism, people-pleasing, overachievement, aggression, withdrawal. These strategies temporarily alleviate the pain but ultimately reinforce the core belief that we're fundamentally inadequate. The person who works 80-hour weeks to prove their worth still feels like an impostor beneath the accomplishments. The social chameleon who morphs to please everyone still feels unknown and unlovable.

Shame researcher June Tangney's work demonstrates how this cycle becomes self-fulfilling. Her studies show that shame-prone individuals are more likely to blame others, externalise responsibility, and experience anger—all responses that damage relationships and reinforce isolation. When we feel ashamed, we're literally less capable of empathy and connection. The barbed wire doesn't just hurt us; it distorts how we see and respond to others.

“Shame, guilt, embarrassment, and pride are members of a family of "self-conscious emotions" that are evoked by self-reflection and self-evaluation. This self-evaluation may be implicit or explicit, consciously experienced or transpiring beyond our awareness. But in one way or another, these emotions fundamentally involve people's reactions to their own characteristics or behaviour. For example, when good things happen, we may feel a range of positive emotions -- joy, happiness, satisfaction or contentment. But we feel pride in our own positive attributes or actions. By the same token, when bad things happen, many negative emotions are possible - for example, sadness, disappointment, frustration, or anger. But feelings of shame and guilt typically arise from the recognition of one's own negative attributes or behaviours. Even when we feel shame due to another person's behaviour, that person is almost invariably someone with whom we are closely affiliated or identified (e.g., a family member, friend or colleague closely associated with oneself). We experience shame because that person is part of our self-definition.” June Tangney

Perhaps most perniciously (what a lovely word!), shame convinces us that we're alone in our flaws. It insists our struggles are unique, our inadequacies exceptional. This perceived isolation is shame's greatest power—and its fundamental lie. The experiences we're most ashamed of are typically the most universal human struggles. But until we risk vulnerability, we can't discover this shared humanity. And so the barbed wire keeps us isolated, each of us believing we're uniquely unworthy of connection.

Why We Cling to the Blanket

If shame is so painful, why do we cling to it? Why wrap ourselves in barbed wire when the cost is so high? The answer lies in shame's paradoxical nature—it wounds us even as it serves vital psychological functions.

First, there's the familiarity factor. Many of us have carried shame for so long that it's become part of our identity. "I wouldn't know who I am without my self-criticism", a coaching client once told me. "It's the voice that's always been there." We fear that without our habitual self-judgment, we'd become complacent, arrogant, or unmoored. The barbed wire hurts, but it's a pain we know intimately.

Shame also masquerades as protection. If I shame myself first, I beat others to the punch. If I never reveal my true desires or talents, they can't be rejected. This pre-emptive strike feels safer than vulnerability, especially for those who've experienced trauma or consistent criticism. "Better to keep expectations low", the logic goes, "than to aim high and fail publicly".

British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott's concept of the "true and false self" illuminates this dynamic. Winnicott proposed that when children's authentic needs and expressions aren't adequately mirrored by caregivers, they develop a "false self"—a compliant, people-pleasing persona that gains approval at the cost of authenticity. The "true self" goes into hiding, emerging only in safe environments or creative expression.

“In the cases on which my work is based there has been what I call a true self hidden, protected by a false self. This false self is no doubt an aspect of the true self. It hides and protects it, and it reacts to the adaptation failures and develops a pattern corresponding to the pattern of environmental failure. In this way the true self is not involved in the reacting, and so preserves a continuity of being. However, this hidden true self suffers an impoverishment that derives from lack of experience.” Donald Winnicott

This split creates profound internal tension. As Winnicott wrote, "Only the true self can feel real". Yet paradoxically, revealing this true self feels threatening when shame has convinced us it's unacceptable.

Our defences around shame take diverse forms. Perfectionism promises that flawlessness will shield us from criticism. People-pleasing suggests that if we satisfy everyone else's needs, our own unworthiness won't matter. Numbing through alcohol, work, or technology offers temporary escape. Control gives the illusion of mastery over an uncertain world. All these strategies attempt to manage shame's pain while keeping its core beliefs intact.

Social media has created new dimensions to this struggle. Our carefully curated online personas often represent Winnicott's "false self" in digital form. We present highlight reels while hiding struggles, reinforcing the illusion that others live without the flaws we're so ashamed of. A recent UK study found that 62% of young adults admitted to posting content specifically to appear successful or happy, regardless of their actual feelings—digital shame management in action. And I think that number is low. 

There's also secondary gain in shame. Staying wrapped in barbed wire means never having to risk authentic action. If I'm too flawed/stupid/untalented to try, I'm absolved from responsibility for my life. Shame becomes comfortable inertia, a barrier against the vulnerable act of engagement. "What if I fail?" morphs into "I'm too broken to attempt". And it puts it onto others or our environment. 

Perhaps most fundamentally, we cling to shame because we misunderstand its purpose. Shame likely evolved as a social emotion designed to prevent rejection from our tribe—literally a survival mechanism in our evolutionary past. But this adaptive function has run amok in modern contexts. What once kept us physically safe now keeps us emotionally isolated. The blanket no longer serves its purpose, yet we clutch it tight, mistaking familiar pain for necessary protection.

The Cost to Authenticity

When we're wrapped in shame's barbed wire, authenticity becomes nearly impossible. The energy required to maintain our defensive façades leaves little space for genuine presence or expression. It's like trying to dance while wearing a suit of armour—technically possible, but graceless and exhausting.

It would be absolutely remiss not to talk about one of the all time brilliant thinkers when it comes to shame, vulnerability and authenticity, Brené Brown. I devote a whole chapter to her in my book but I want to make a point here about her work on shame. 

She famously said,

“Shame needs three things to grow exponentially in our lives: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” Brené Brown

Like mould spreading in dark, damp corners, shame cannot survive exposure to light and air. When we keep our perceived inadequacies secret, refuse to speak about our experiences, and harshly judge ourselves (or anticipate judgment from others), we create the perfect environment for shame to flourish. Each element reinforces the others—secrecy demands silence, silence invites judgment, judgment deepens secrecy. It's a self-perpetuating cycle that winds the barbed wire tighter around us with each turn.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Sociologist Erving Goffman's framework of "front stage" and "back stage" personas offers insight into this exhaustion amid the shame cycle. In his seminal work The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Goffman describes how we maintain different performances depending on our audience. We have our professional self, our family self, our social media self—each tailored to specific expectations.

While some contextual adaptation is normal, shame drives these performances to extremes. The gap between "front stage" (how we present) and "back stage" (who we really are) grows wider. Maintaining this division requires constant vigilance: filtering thoughts, monitoring expressions, adjusting to perceived expectations. No wonder the participant in my workshop was exhausted—such performance is mentally depleting. And if I’m truly honest, I feel that depletion on the daily. 

As Goffman notes, 

"The self, then, as a performed character, is not an organic thing that has a specific location, whose fundamental fate is to be born, to mature, and to die; it is a dramatic effect arising diffusely from a scene that is presented, and the characteristic issue, the crucial concern, is whether it will be credited or discredited." Erving Goffman

When shame is the director of this drama, the scene becomes increasingly elaborate and distant from our inner reality. We may receive approval for our performance while feeling profoundly unseen.

The workplace costs are significant. In environments where shame flourishes, innovation suffers. Google's Project Aristotle, which studied team effectiveness, found that "psychological safety"—the ability to take risks without fear of ridicule—was the single most important factor in high-performing teams. Where shame dominates, this safety vanishes. (The organisation, Psych Safety, have outlined ten ways to develop this in your workplace - check out the infographic below - and the findings from Project Aristotle are worth a read in their article here.)

If we think about an office scenario such as a meeting where ideas are needed. In shame-prone cultures, participation dwindles to safe contributions. The creative solution, the challenging question, the novel approach—all might remain unspoken. A 2018 survey of UK workplaces found that 71% of employees had withheld ideas due to fear of negative judgment. That's thousands of innovations lost to shame's silencing effect. There’s also the issue of most people deferring to the loudest or most senior person in a room but that’s for a different conversation!

The personal costs run deeper still. Research consistently links shame-proneness to anxiety, depression, addiction, and eating disorders. A longitudinal study at King's College London found that chronic shame in adolescents predicted poorer mental health outcomes even ten years later. The barbed wire doesn't just scratch; it creates lasting wounds.

Relationships suffer equally. Authentic connection requires vulnerability—showing ourselves as we truly are and being received with understanding. Shame makes this exchange nearly impossible. We present carefully edited versions of ourselves, receive validation for these performances, then wonder why we still feel unknown. The loneliness that results isn't about physical isolation but emotional disconnection—being surrounded by people yet feeling fundamentally unseen.

Career progression and personal fulfillment stall when shame dominates. We avoid challenges that might expose our perceived inadequacies. We turn down opportunities that would push us beyond comfortable competence. We stick with the familiar even when it no longer serves us. One person described it as "living in the shallows"—never risking the deeper waters where both failure and extraordinary discovery become possible.

Perhaps most costly is the loss of personal authority. When shame's voice becomes our dominant inner narrative, we outsource our worth to external validation. We become like windsocks, shifting with every breeze of opinion. The capacity for self-trust erodes, replaced by constant seeking of reassurance. This state makes us vulnerable to manipulation and robs us of agency in crafting meaningful lives.

The barbed wire doesn't just wound; it constrains. It limits who we allow ourselves to become. This constraint affects not just individual lives but collective possibility—communities and organisations deprived of authentic contributions, relationships denied genuine depth, and innovations lost to fear of judgment.

Putting Down the Blanket

If shame is a barbed wire blanket, then freedom requires not just recognising it, but deliberately choosing to set it down. This isn't accomplished through force of will alone. The process requires patience, practice, and often, the support of trusted others. But it begins with a radical proposition: what if the protection we think shame offers is actually preventing the connection we truly need?

The first step is developing what psychologists call "shame resilience"—not the absence of shame, but the ability to recognise it, name it, and move through it without being derailed. This involves becoming familiar with our personal shame triggers and physical responses. Does your chest tighten? Does your voice change? Do you suddenly feel small or want to disappear? These bodily cues often register before conscious awareness.

Once we recognise shame's activation, we can interrupt its typical progression. Psychiatrist Paul Gilbert, founder of Compassion Focused Therapy, offers a particularly relevant framework. Developed in the UK, Gilbert's approach specifically addresses the self-criticism and shame that characterise many psychological difficulties.

Gilbert proposes that humans have three primary emotional regulation systems: the threat system (focused on danger), the drive system (focused on achievement), and the soothing system (focused on connection and care). People struggling with chronic shame often have overactive threat systems and underdeveloped soothing systems—they're quick to perceive danger but struggle to self-comfort.

Compassion Focused Therapy works to balance these systems through deliberate practices. When shame arises, we can activate our soothing system through specific techniques: slowing breathing, adopting a compassionate inner voice, or imagining how we'd speak to a struggling friend. This doesn't eliminate the shame experience, but changes our relationship to it.

We can't control the weather, but we can learn to build shelter. Similarly, we may not prevent shame from arising, but we can develop resources to weather its storms with less damage.

Language plays a crucial role in this process. Notice the difference between "I am ashamed" and "I notice shame arising". One statement equates us with the emotion; the other creates helpful distance. This linguistic shift helps us observe shame without being consumed by it.

Practical exercises can strengthen this capacity. Try writing your shameful thoughts on paper, then physically stepping back to view them from a distance. Speak them in a silly voice to reduce their power. Imagine them as text messages from an unreliable source. Burn them in an open fire. These techniques sound simple but can profoundly shift our relationship with painful thoughts.

Perhaps most powerful is the deliberate cultivation of shame-free zones in our lives. Even one relationship where we feel truly seen and accepted can become a template for healthier connection elsewhere.

The process of putting down the barbed wire blanket requires courage, patience, and often, professional support. But the research is clear: shame resilience can be learned. We aren't doomed to remain entangled in painful self-judgment. With practice, we can learn to recognise shame's voice as just one perspective—not the definitive truth about our worth.

Cultivating Authentic Connection

Once we've begun to loosen shame's grip, a new possibility emerges: authentic connection based not on performance but on genuine presence. This shift doesn't happen overnight, but develops through consistent small choices toward vulnerability and truth.

Philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre offers valuable insight into this process through his concept of narrative identity. In his influential work After Virtue, MacIntyre argues that meaningful human life requires a coherent personal narrative—a story that makes sense of who we are and what matters to us. However, this narrative isn't constructed in isolation; it develops within communities that share certain values and practices.

Applied to our struggle with shame and authenticity, MacIntyre's perspective suggests that we need both personal integrity and a supportive community. We can't become authentic alone. We need what he calls "communities of practice" where certain virtues—like honesty, courage, and compassion—are collectively valued.

“It is through hearing stories about wicked stepmothers, lost children, good but misguided kings, wolves that suckle twin boys, youngest sons who receive no inheritance but must make their own way in the world, and eldest sons who waste their inheritance on riotous living and go into exile to live with the swine, that children learn or mislearn both what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are.” Alasdair MacIntyre

Creating such environments begins with small acts of authentic disclosure. Not dramatic confessions, but modest truths: acknowledging when we don't know something, sharing a genuine emotional response, expressing a true preference rather than defaulting to what seems acceptable - I prefer turkey to chicken 😂. These seemingly minor choices gradually establish new patterns of interaction.

In workplace settings, leaders set the tone. When managers acknowledge mistakes, express genuine emotion, or admit uncertainty, they create psychological safety for others to do the same. 

Digital spaces present particular challenges for authenticity. The curated nature of social media often amplifies shame by presenting unrealistic standards for comparison. Yet some are reclaiming these platforms for more genuine expression. Accounts sharing unfiltered experiences of parenthood, mental health struggles, or professional setbacks provide counter-narratives to perfectionism. Following voices that prioritise authenticity over image can gradually reshape our digital consumption.

The power of "me too" moments cannot be overstated. When one person risks sharing something shameful—"I struggle with imposter syndrome", "I find parenting overwhelming sometimes", "I don't always know what I'm doing"—it often creates space for others to acknowledge similar experiences. It’s the Marianne Williamson poem come to life. These exchanges directly counter shame's core message that we're alone in our struggles.

The benefits of moving from shame to authenticity extend beyond emotional wellbeing. Research consistently shows that authentic self-expression correlates with greater creativity, improved problem-solving, and more effective leadership. When we're not exhausting our cognitive resources on impression management, our minds work better.

Relationships deepen as well. The paradox of vulnerability is that what seems most risky—showing our true selves—actually creates the strongest connections. As Brené Brown notes, we're hardwired for belonging. Authentic disclosure activates empathy in others, often leading to reciprocal sharing. The resulting bonds are both stronger and more nourishing than connections based on performance.

This doesn't mean absolute transparency in all contexts. Authenticity isn't about sharing everything with everyone. Rather, it's about congruence between inner experience and outer expression, with appropriate boundaries. We might share different aspects of ourselves in different relationships, but without the fundamental disconnection that shame creates.

MacIntyre would remind us that this journey toward authenticity requires certain virtues: courage to risk vulnerability, honesty to acknowledge our true experience, and practical wisdom to discern appropriate contexts for disclosure. These qualities develop through practice within communities where they're valued—whether formal groups like therapeutic circles or informal relationships with trusted friends.

The work is ongoing. We don't arrive at perfect authenticity and remain there permanently. Instead, we continually navigate the tension between social adaptation and genuine self-expression. The difference is awareness—choosing how we present ourselves rather than being driven by unconscious shame.

Unwrapping the Wire

The journey from shame to authenticity isn't a straight path but a series of practices, choices, and course corrections. It's about progress, not perfection, as I’m hearing lots of people saying lately. Having explored the theory, let's conclude with practical takeaways for loosening shame's grip and living more authentically.

When I reflect on my own relationship with shame, I'm struck by how persistent yet subtle its voice can be. Just yesterday, I caught myself apologising for taking up space in a meeting—that barbed wire wrapping itself around me again. The work continues. But I've also witnessed the freedom that comes from setting down shame's burden, both in my life and others'. It's worth the effort, even when progress feels slow.

The beauty of authenticity isn't flawless self-expression but human connection grounded in truth. When we unwrap the barbed wire, we don't just free ourselves from pain—we open possibilities for genuine engagement with others and the world. We become available for the connection we've always desired beneath our defensive coverings.

As Jason Jaggard's powerful metaphor reminds us, shame may feel like protection, but ultimately cuts us off from what we truly need. The blanket we reach for becomes the very thing that wounds us. But we have alternatives—a less painful way to live, love, and contribute. It begins with recognising the barbed wire for what it is: not necessary protection, but a painful constraint we can gradually learn to set aside.

Key Takeaways

1. Distinguish shame from guilt. Shame attacks who you are; guilt addresses what you did. Practise noticing when you've slipped from "I made a mistake" to "I am a mistake”.
2. Cultivate a compassionate inner voice. Deliberately practise speaking to yourself as you would to a valued friend facing difficulty. This doesn't come naturally for most of us but strengthens with repetition. Be more gracious to yourself. 
3. Create a "shame-free zone" with trusted others. Identify at least one relationship where you can have authentic expression without fear of judgment. Small disclosures build safety for larger ones.
4. Question absolute thinking. Challenge shame's black-and-white pronouncements. Replace "I'm terrible at public speaking" with "I get nervous presenting to large groups but manage well with smaller teams".
5. Practise self-compassion actively. When you stumble or struggle, try the three elements of self-compassion: mindfulness of your suffering, recognition of common humanity, and active self-kindness.
6. Remember you're unfinished. As MacIntyre might remind us, we're always in the middle of our stories. Setbacks and struggles don't define your narrative—they're just current chapters in an unfolding tale.

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