You open up. You finally let someone see the raw, unrehearsed parts of you. You speak from a place you don’t often go, not out loud, at least. And then it happens.

Regret. Vulnerability hangover. Shame.

The rush of panic is immediate. You want to reach out and fix whatever you just said. Rephrase it. Lighten it. Prove that you’re okay. That your pain isn’t a burden. That your emotions aren’t too much.

If you’re a solo parent, this cycle may feel almost automatic. You spend so much of your life managing responsibilities, staying strong for your kids, keeping the wheels turning. When you finally show someone the depth of your fatigue or sadness, it can feel like a mistake—even when it’s not.

This is what shame does. It creeps in after our most courageous moments and tells us we were wrong to be real.

But you weren’t wrong.
You were human.

It’s common to assume that shame only comes from external judgment, but some of the most powerful shame we experience is self-generated. It’s internal. A script we absorbed early in life and now repeat back to ourselves: “You’re too much. You shouldn’t feel this way. Get it together.”

Laurie Lokey, a licensed therapist and co-founder of Resilient Love, often talks about the deep roots of these messages. She says many of us learned to manage discomfort by protecting our hearts. That looks different for everyone: some of us detach, some perform, some over-function. “But underneath it all,” Laurie says, “we’ve been taught that our pain makes us unlovable.”

That belief keeps us quiet. Or it makes us work overtime to appear okay.

Elizabeth Cole, a single parent, recently described how it played out for her. After being open with someone she trusted, she immediately shifted into performance. “I caught myself trying to prove I was fine. I wanted to show them I wasn’t a burden. That I’d moved on.” But the truth was, she was still hurting, and part of her didn’t believe she could be fully seen in that space without losing connection.

The next time you feel the urge to explain, justify, or perform your way out of a vulnerable moment, pause. Stay where you are. Let the moment breathe. Let your truth stand. Don’t rescue yourself from your own honesty.

This doesn’t mean you won’t feel shaky afterward. But if you can stay, if you can remind yourself that vulnerability isn’t a threat, you begin to shift the pattern. You stop abandoning yourself in the aftermath.

Laurie reminds us that real connection doesn’t require us to be polished. It requires us to be present.

But even if you stay outwardly calm, shame often finds another route: through the mind.

Overthinking is one of shame’s most effective disguises. It feels like you’re being careful, thoughtful, responsible. But underneath the looping thoughts is often a deep fear of being too much.

Robert Beeson, Founder of Solo Parent, describes it like this: “I’ll replay conversations over and over. If someone doesn’t respond how I expected, my mind spirals. Did I come across wrong? Was I too intense? Did I say too much?”

It’s a familiar cycle. A message left on read. A text without a smiley. A quiet pause in a conversation. And suddenly, your brain is writing stories that cast you as the problem.

Overthinking feels productive. But it rarely leads to peace. More often, it keeps us stuck in self-doubt, disconnecting us from the truth of who we are.

When your thoughts start spiraling, that’s usually a signal. Not that something’s wrong with you, but that your body needs your attention more than your mind does.

Instead of chasing clarity in someone else’s behavior, try grounding yourself in your own. Where are your feet? How does your chest feel? Is your jaw clenched? Breathe. Let yourself return to your body, to this moment, to what’s actually happening—not what might be.

Elizabeth has learned to do this when her anxiety spikes. “Sometimes I’ll catch myself creating entire stories in my head about why someone hasn’t responded,” she says. “I have to stop and ask, ‘Is that actually true? Or am I just scared?’”

That question changes things.

Because fear isn’t the problem. Avoiding it is.

It’s important to name where these patterns come from. Overthinking and emotional self-correction are often survival strategies from earlier in life. As children, many of us learned that being low-maintenance made us easier to love. That managing our own needs kept the peace. That hiding our feelings made us safer.

So we grew up learning to anticipate, to read between lines, to decode what people didn’t say. And now, even in adulthood, we’re still trying to earn love by being as little of a burden as possible.

But love doesn’t work that way.

You don’t have to be less of yourself to be more acceptable. You don’t have to work harder to deserve compassion.

You already do.

One of the simplest, most grounding truths Laurie teaches her clients is this: you are allowed to be human.

That means you’re allowed to misread a moment. You’re allowed to feel insecure. You’re allowed to send a follow-up text and then regret it. And none of that makes you unworthy of connection.

If you’re caught in a spiral of self-doubt, try this: pause and ask yourself what you’re afraid of. Then remind yourself that even if your worst fear is true—you’re still loved. You’re still safe.

Because real peace doesn’t come from controlling outcomes.
It comes from letting go of control and choosing presence instead.

If shame is the fear of disconnection, presence is the antidote.

Being present with yourself after a vulnerable moment.
Being present with your body when your thoughts won’t stop.
Being present with the people who love you—not just when you’re smiling, but when you’re shaking a little.

Robert puts it this way: “I’m just starting to learn what intimacy really means. And it scares me. But I’m learning that it’s less about doing and more about being.”

That’s the invitation. Not to fix yourself. Not to disappear. But to stay.

You are not too much.
You don’t need to shrink to be safe.
You don’t have to earn your place at the table.

Let yourself be seen, even when you feel messy.
And then, let yourself stay.

That’s where peace begins.