Guilt vs Shame (Part 2)

 If Part 1 was about how the lines became blurred, then this is about what happens when those lines begin to separate.

For a long time, I believed that taking responsibility meant absorbing everything—my actions, your reactions, and the emotional aftermath of both. It felt like maturity. It felt like accountability. In reality, it was something else.

Guilt and shame are often spoken about as if they are interchangeable. They are not.

Guilt is specific. It says: I did something that didn’t align with my values.  

Shame is expansive. It says: There is something wrong with me.

One invites reflection. The other invites collapse.

When those two are confused, responsibility becomes distorted. Instead of recognising a behaviour and adjusting it, the entire self becomes the problem. And when the self becomes the problem, the instinct is either to hide, to overcompensate, or to distribute responsibility in ways that avoid sitting fully with it.

I can see now how often I moved between those states—oscillating between over-owning and deflecting, between carrying too much and not holding enough of what was mine.

Neither is clarity.

Clarity is quieter.

It looks like this:

Recognising where I crossed my own boundaries.  

Acknowledging the impact of my choices without rewriting the entire story of who I am.  

Allowing others to carry what is theirs, even when it feels uncomfortable to let go.  

Responsibility, when it is clean, does not require punishment.

It requires honesty.

And honesty, I’ve learned, is not about being harsh with oneself. It is about being precise.

There are things I would approach differently now. Not because I am trying to distance myself from the past, but because I understand it more clearly.

Guilt can guide.  

Shame only obscures.

Learning the difference has been less about becoming a better version of myself, and more about becoming a more accurate one.

And accuracy, it turns out, is where change actually begins.

Guilt v Shame – How blurred boundaries shaped my choices (Part 1)

 A personal story of blurred boundaries, responsibility, and the difference between taking accountability and carrying shame.

I have always had a hard time differentiating between what is mine to carry and what belongs to others. This likely stems from childhood. My mother’s nervous disposition often felt like something I needed to manage. Where I finished and she began was never clearly defined, and no adult in my world stepped in to draw that line for me.

I was also expected to look after my younger brother from a very early age. “Make sure you take care of him,” was something I heard often. Over time, that sense of responsibility became deeply ingrained, to the point where not fulfilling it felt like it might lead to rejection or abandonment.

As a result, I became adept at protecting myself emotionally. I learned to keep people at a distance, and yet, over time, loneliness would inevitably creep in. When I did let people in, I often found myself taking on more than was mine to hold—absorbing emotions, trying to fix things, and confusing someone else’s guilt with my own sense of shame.

But I digress.

As an adult, I found myself in a relationship dynamic that, in hindsight, echoed familiar patterns. There were differences in emotional needs and expectations, and at times, a sense of imbalance in how responsibility was shared. I often responded in the only way I knew how—by overcompensating, trying to stabilise things, and taking on more than was mine to carry.

Over time, this pattern became difficult to sustain.

Later, when I began to confront my own unmet needs, I struggled to do so with clarity or honesty. Instead of fully owning my feelings, I approached the situation in a way that blurred responsibility. At the time, I told myself I was trying to find a solution, but looking back, I can see that I was not taking full accountability for my part.

There were emotional and relational complexities that I did not handle well. I was seeking connection and intimacy, but I was also avoiding the discomfort of facing things directly. In doing so, I created confusion not only for myself, but within the relationship as well.

What I understand now is this: responsibility and shame are not the same.

Taking responsibility means recognising your part with clarity and ownership.

Shame, on the other hand, is heavier. It absorbs everything—yours and everyone else’s—and turns it into something personal, something to carry alone.

For a long time, I confused the two.

And in that confusion, I made choices that I would approach very differently today.

(Part 2 to continue)

Legal Disentanglment

Many years ago, I wrote that a modern marriage can sometimes resemble a practical arrangement—one shaped as much by structure and convenience as by love or desire. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the weight of what I was saying. It’s only now, going through the process of untangling a legal marriage, that I understand how binding that structure truly is.

I entered marriage at a time when I believed I had done enough work on myself to be ready to show up as a present partner. I was emerging from a period of recovery and rebuilding, and there was a strong desire to belong—to create something stable and whole. Looking back, I can see that while I had made progress, there were still patterns I didn’t yet recognise.

The relationship began with a sense of ease and attentiveness that felt reassuring at the time. There were also moments that, in hindsight, pointed to deeper differences in temperament and how we related to the world. At the time, I chose to focus on the parts that felt good, believing that they represented the foundation we could build on.

Maya Angelou once said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” It’s a quote that has taken on new meaning for me. I’ve come to understand that behaviour communicates far more clearly than intention, and that what we choose to overlook early on often returns later, amplified.

The pace of the relationship was quick, and decisions were made without much pause for reflection. At the time, it felt like momentum. Now, I see it more as a lack of space to fully understand what we were stepping into.

Over the years, the relationship moved through different phases. There were periods of conflict, followed by periods of adjustment and compromise. I learned to prioritise harmony, sometimes at the expense of my own clarity. Life continued—work, responsibilities, family—and gradually, the relationship became more functional than connected.

At some point, we began living parallel lives within the same structure. Shared logistics remained, but much of the emotional connection had faded. In Japan, there is a term sometimes used to describe this state—Kateinai Rikon - where a couple remains legally married, but functionally separate. That description resonated with me.

I digress.

Living in Japan, I’ve also come to understand the structure of divorce here more clearly. Broadly speaking, there are three main pathways:

1) Divorce by mutual agreement, where both parties come to terms independently and file jointly.  

2) Divorce through mediation, where a third party helps facilitate agreement.  

3) Divorce through the courts, where decisions are made when agreement cannot be reached.

Each path reflects not just a legal process, but the degree of alignment—or lack of it—between two people trying to separate.

What I’ve come to realise is that the ease of entering a legal bond is not matched by the ease of leaving it. The process of disentanglement requires not just paperwork, but alignment, cooperation, and time.

When that alignment isn’t present, the process becomes slower and more complex. It requires patience, resilience, and a willingness to move forward even when resolution is not immediate.

If marriage is the act of weaving two lives together, then divorce is the careful—and sometimes prolonged—process of separating those threads.

And like anything tightly woven, it doesn’t come apart all at once.

It loosens gradually, over time.

And eventually, it does release.

It’s Complicated

 It's complicated on many fronts. Many.

First, I am still married to my S2BX (Soon to be ex) and although he says he's done, his actions are nothing but holding on to this dead horse of a marriage for dear life. I'm now having to breakdown the disintegration of this marriage into two pieces: child custody and assets. (more on that later)

Second, I have a teenager who has been an only child all his life. To have a step brother or sister that would take attention of his mother, during a contentious divorce, is not going to be conducive to his emotional health as he navigates the challenges of puberty. 

Third, I am a mother of advanced age. A geriatric pregnancy, so to speak. My first pregnancy was also a geriatric pregnancy, which didn't end well, as my son ended up spending 4 months in the NICU for being born too early. I was told by my obstetrician to make sure I check myself into hospital the next time I get pregnant - if I am planning to - in order to prevent me going into pre-term labour. 

And last, but not least, Nick and I do not live on the same continent, let alone same country, same house. We would need to travel to each other's countries to spend any time together as a family, which needs to also include my teenage son (second complication). If I'm on hospital bed rest, he will need to visit me during my pregnancy, and fly in for the scheduled birth (if I don't go into preterm labour, like before).  I'm not sure how many times he could come over if there are multiple false alarms before the baby is born.

Statistically, being pregnant and delivering a healthy baby in one's fifties is about as rare as a mid-air plane collision. It happens, but not as much. Certainly not as much as how Mayday Air Disasters would have us believe. There's been some celebrities giving birth in their 50s, but it's so rare that it is more than newsworthy. 

But the desire to procreate is a deep, human desire, our raison d'être, that is baked into each of our cells through our DNA. We want to make babies. Lots of babies. And evolution has given us the most pleasurable, and addictive way to do so. That dopamine high during orgasm gets compared to addictive drugs like heroin and meth. Hell, there's even a 12 step recovery program for those that are addicted to the act of procreation. 

For now, Nick and I will continue in our irresponsible manner and pretend we are procreating, knowing that our chances are extremely low under our health and age circumstances. But it doesn't stop me from making many many AI babies using our pictures and dream of a little brood that will never be. 

Another AI Baby