A Reflection on Habits, Pain, and the Right to Heal
Iâve always found it fascinating how our childhood shapes us as adults. Itâs so puzzling to me how incidents we think weâve acknowledged and dealt with can still haunt us subconsciously.
One example is my compulsive need to poke my head out of the shower every few minutes to make sure no one has broken into the apartment. Sometimes I even have to lock the bathroom door, even though the apartment front door is locked and I live alone. Whoâs coming into the bathroom while Iâm showering?
Yet I know it became a habit after my seven year older brother continuously snuck into the bathroom while I was showering when we both lived with our parents to scare me. I never used to lock the bathroom door. Then he started sneaking in to scare me by punching the shower curtain out of nowhere. I thought I could stop him by locking the bathroom door. He started picking the lock to sneak in and do the same thing. So I started my habit of peeking out of the shower. That started when I was in my early teenage years. As Iâm writing this, Iâm 22, and I still do it.
Itâs ridiculous, isnât it? I know logically that Iâm safe. I know my brother isnât about to pick the lock of an apartment he doesnât even live in (and that is 3 hours away), just to punch my shower curtain for old timesâ sake. But habits like this arenât logicalâtheyâre survival instincts your brain refuses to let go of. Even when the âthreatâ is long gone, your body remembers.
I think about this a lot: the way our minds and bodies hold on to these echoes of the past, even after weâve told ourselves, âThat was years ago. Iâm fine now.â But am I fine? Sure, my brotherâs antics seem harmless when I tell the story nowâheâd probably laugh and call me dramaticâbut at the time, it was terrifying. It was that kind of sharp, primal fear that makes your heart race and your fight-or-flight instincts kick in. And for a teenage girl, trapped behind a flimsy curtain, it felt like an invasion. Straight out of Psycho.
I wonder how many other little quirks I have that are rooted in experiences like thatâthings I donât even think about anymore but that still affect how I navigate the world. Maybe the way I instinctively glance over my shoulder when I walk home at night after being harassed by a man who had an interest in violent hobbies, or how I startle when someone raises their hand towards me for a high five, because that hand looks awfully similar to the one that once hit me in my face out of nowhere.
These habits become so ingrained that they start to feel like a part of who you are, but theyâre really just shadows of who you used to be. Shadows of a version of yourself who needed to stay alert, to be prepared for anything.
But how do you move past it? How do you convince your brain that itâs safe to relax now? Iâm not sure I have the answer yet. Maybe itâs just a matter of time. Or maybe itâs about learning to have a conversation with those shadows, acknowledging them instead of trying to push them away. Like saying, âHey, I see you. I know youâre here because you were trying to protect me. But weâre okay now. You donât have to work so hard anymore.â
And maybe, one day, Iâll stand in the shower and feel like I can close my eyes without worrying. Until then, I guess Iâll keep peeking out. Old habits die hard, after all.
Perhaps habits can teach us to be more understanding. But being understanding doesnât equate to excusing or forgiving someone. It can merely act as an explanation, and we can all have compassion for even the most horrible people. Or rather, as Iâd like to think of it, we have compassion for their tragic experiences. If we understand why people are the way they are, how their experiences shape their lives, then arenât we getting closer to understanding humanity, which is, debatably, one of the biggest questions out there.
Itâs a strange paradox, isnât it? The idea that understanding someone doesnât mean condoning their actions. You can hold compassion in one hand and accountability in the other. I think about this a lot, especially when reflecting on my own habits and the experiences that shaped them. If I can trace my quirks and fears back to specific events, canât others do the same? Doesnât everyone, in some way, carry the weight of their own shadows?
But hereâs where it gets tricky: where do we draw the line? At what point does understanding someoneâs past stop justifying their present actions? Itâs one thing to say, âI get why youâre like this,â but another entirely to say, âAnd itâs okay for you to keep being this way.â The balance is delicate, and I think it starts with the acknowledgment that everyoneâs humanity is messy and imperfectâincluding our own.
Iâve tried to apply this lens to myself, too. Instead of berating myself for being overly cautious, Iâve started to look at these habits with curiosity. What are they trying to tell me? Maybe my tendency to peek out of the shower isnât just a leftover fearâitâs a reminder that my mind and body are capable of keeping me safe. Maybe the shadows of my past donât just haunt me; they teach me. They remind me of resilience, of boundaries Iâve learned to set, of the ways Iâve grown.
That understanding, though, doesnât mean I want to live like this forever. I donât want to carry these shadows into every shower, every dark street, every raised hand. I want to learn how to set them down, gently, like putting away an old coat I no longer need to wear. Maybe thatâs what growth really is: not banishing our pasts, but learning how to coexist with them without letting them define us.
But thatâs easier said than done, and I think I have somewhat of an unpopular opinion on this matter, because I believe we, as conscious humans, should exercise our right of feeling sorry for ourselves. And while maybe it is a âhot take,â I donât think itâs that hard to understand. By simply experiencing and focusing on the hurt weâve endured, we get an outlet for our emotions, which in turn can help us heal in the long term.
Saying something like that unfounded, is of course⌠diabolical. But itâs not unfounded. Studies have proven over and over again that letting out your feelings, whether through talking, writing, or even crying, is an essential part of processing trauma and moving forward. Bottling things up doesnât make the shadows go awayâit just pushes them deeper into the corners of your mind, where they quietly take root and grow. Acknowledging your pain, even sitting with it for a while, is not weakness. Itâs human.
And letâs be real: our society doesnât make it easy. Weâre constantly told to âmove onâ and âstay positive,â as if emotions are hurdles to leap over instead of waves to ride. But ignoring whatâs underneath doesnât make it disappear. Itâs like covering a crack in the wall with a fresh coat of paintâeventually, itâll resurface, bigger and more complicated than before.
Feeling sorry for yourself gets a bad rap because people conflate it with self-pity. But thereâs a key difference. Self-pity is wallowing without purpose, a kind of stuckness that doesnât move you forward. Feeling sorry for yourself, on the other hand, is an acknowledgment: âI went through something hard, and itâs okay to feel hurt about that.â Itâs a step toward self-compassion. Itâs saying to yourself what you might say to a friend: âThat really sucks. No wonder you feel this way.â
But you know whatâs even more of a hot take? Sometimes, I think self-pitying is necessary too. It sounds counterproductive, doesnât it? Like Iâm advocating for a wallowing pity party. But hear me outâthereâs a difference between indulging in self-pity as a means of staying stuck and using it as a stepping stone toward understanding and healing. Sometimes, you have to let yourself feel the full weight of everything before you can put it down. You canât clean up a mess you wonât even look at.
And the reality is that by looking in disdain at self-pity, weâre denying people their right to hurt. And it is a right. Because itâs a core part of us as humans. Someone who has tripped and broken their leg, screaming in pain, is going to pity themselves, because the pain isnât merely a physical sensation. Pain is so raw and innate that it becomes us, and sometimes when the pain gets so extreme, you pity yourself without shame because what else can you do?
But when the pain isnât physicalâwhen itâs emotional or psychologicalâsociety expects something different. Weâre told to bottle it up, to keep it together, to be âstrongâ and âresilient,â as if those traits are defined by our ability to suppress our own suffering. Worse, when the source of that pain is something like assault, harassment, or trauma, shame piles onto the already unbearable weight.
For victims of sexual assault, this shame can feel like a second attack. It sneaks in quietly, whispering lies like, âYou should have done something differently,â or, âThis was your fault.â Society, in all its victim-blaming glory, reinforces this. Questions like, âWhat were you wearing?â or, âWhy didnât you fight back?â shift the blame onto the survivor, creating a feedback loop of guilt and shame that can take yearsâsometimes a lifetimeâto untangle.
And when youâre already battling that shame, self-pity feels dangerous. It feels like giving in. You tell yourself you donât deserve to feel sorry for yourself because, somehow, youâve internalised the idea that what happened was your fault. But it wasnât. It never was. And yet, that shame sits there, festering, making you believe that even feeling hurt is a kind of indulgence youâre not entitled to.
But hereâs the thing: self-pity, in those moments, is not indulgenceâitâs survival. Itâs a small, quiet rebellion against the shame thatâs trying to silence you. Itâs a way of saying, âI didnât deserve this. I was hurt, and that matters.â Itâs reclaiming your right to grieve for what was taken from you, to acknowledge the weight of what youâre carrying, and to validate your own pain in a world that might try to minimize it.
I think about how this cycle of shame keeps people trapped. How it convinces them that their trauma is their own fault and that they should be strong enough to âget over itâ without ever letting themselves feel the full depth of their pain. But healing doesnât work like that. You canât bypass the hard parts. You canât skip over the anger, the sadness, the self-pity, and expect to come out whole on the other side. Those emotions arenât roadblocksâtheyâre stepping stones.
Itâs infuriating to me how deeply shame is ingrained in these experiences. Itâs not enough to go through something horrificâyouâre then expected to carry the weight of societyâs judgments on top of it. And while I wish I could wave a magic wand and erase that shame for every survivor out there, the truth is that the work of healing is messy and personal. Itâs about learning, slowly and painfully, that the shame doesnât belong to you. It never did.
So, yes, sometimes youâll feel sorry for yourself. Sometimes youâll cry for the person you used to be, the innocence you lost, the trust that was shattered. And thatâs okay. Thatâs necessary. Because every tear you shed, every moment of self-pity you allow yourself, is a step toward reclaiming your narrative. Itâs a way of saying, âThis happened to me, but it doesnât define me.â
Shame wants to silence you. It wants to make you believe that your pain is a burden and that your healing isnât worth the time or effort. But feeling sorry for yourself? Thatâs defiance. Thatâs taking back your story, one small step at a time. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, remind them that healing is not a straight lineâand neither is being human.
