“Shame is the deeply painful sensation or experience of thinking that we are flawed and thus unworthy of love and belonging.” ~Brené Brown
I once referred to myself as a “beetroot.” It was a mark of inadequacy that my inner critic yelled at me whenever I sensed warmth rising in my cheeks. For many years, I dealt with erythrophobia, a severe and overwhelming fear of blushing that gradually tore my world apart from within.
Most individuals blush. A subtle flush rises up the neck before a first date or public speaking, and then it fades. For me, it was never that straightforward. The blush itself wasn’t the issue. It was the significance I had associated with it. Each time my face turned red, a relentless internal dialogue commenced: Everyone notices. They are judging you. You are weak. You are absurd. You are broken. I spent years attempting to escape that voice, but I could never fully succeed.
I wish to convey what that experience truly entailed, and more importantly, what ultimately changed. Because if you have ever found yourself avoiding life to evade a feeling, I believe this might resonate with you.
The Social Death Sentence
The earliest memory I have of this fear taking over was during a primary school assembly. Unexpectedly, I had been awarded a prize. As I was called up before five hundred children, my face flushed bright red, and my legs began to tremble. I was not proud of the award; I was horrified. I wished for the ground to open up and consume me.
The shame that ensued was so crushing that I started skipping school whenever I thought I might receive another award. Eventually, I concluded that it was safer to avoid doing anything that deserved recognition altogether. I opted for invisibility over acknowledgment, and I didn’t even fully grasp what I was sacrificing. I was a child shielding himself in the only way I knew how.
This pattern trailed into my adult life with a sort of quiet, unyielding tenacity. Job interviews turned into trials. Group meetings at work felt like dangerous terrains. I shunned new acquaintances, struggled to maintain jobs, and ultimately became so isolated that I had nearly no close connections. The solitude was palpable, and it weighed heavily.
I found myself ensnared in a destructive cycle that I couldn’t escape. The fear of blushing triggered anxiety. That anxiety made blushing more probable. The blushing validated my most dreadful beliefs about myself. Thus, the cycle continued. The more fervently I tried to stop it, the faster it appeared to whirl.
Why I Fought So Hard
For a considerable time, I did not grasp why the fear held such power over me. I just knew it did. I attempted to conceal my face during conversations, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I spoke rapidly to conclude interactions before the blush could strike. I berated myself after every social encounter, dissecting every moment I had flushed. I sought remedies, explored forums at two in the morning, and practiced breathing techniques that aided for only about thirty seconds.
What I ultimately came to realize, with the assistance of hypnotherapy and a significant amount of sincere self-reflection, was that the blushing itself had never been the fundamental problem. The fundamental problem was shame, and this shame had a history long before the first assembly hall ever came into play.
I had grown up in a dysfunctional setting where I was often belittled. Mistakes were magnified. Emotions were ridiculed. Sensitivity was regarded as a weakness. Without being aware of it, I had absorbed those messages and cultivated an inner critic who echoed an