“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.” – Brené Brown

When we hear the word abuse, many of us imagine violence. Something extreme. Something unmistakable.

But abuse is not always physical. At its heart, it is the misuse of power in a way that causes harm.

It can be emotional, psychological, sexual, verbal, financial or coercive. It can be loud and frightening, but it can also be quiet and subtle – so subtle that we may struggle to name what is happening to us.

Perhaps we have also become desensitised. Television, films, the written word and social media repeatedly expose us to behaviour that is controlling, humiliating, threatening or degrading. Sometimes it is presented as passion, jealousy, humour or even love.

And what should never be normal can slowly begin to feel normal.

Then there is shame.

Shame has a way of minimising our experience.

It wasn’t that bad.
Other people have had it worse.
Maybe I’m overreacting.
Perhaps it was my fault.
Why didn’t I say something?

And so we remain silent.

As a psychotherapist, I have witnessed how difficult it can be to begin to uncover the shame attached to abuse – particularly when the person who has hurt us is someone we love, trust or are connected to.

A husband or wife.
A mother or father.
A daughter or son.
A sister or brother.
A friend.

Sometimes the hardest abuse to acknowledge is the abuse that doesn’t fit the picture we have in our minds of what abuse is supposed to look like.

A place to start is simply to become curious about our own experience. To stop asking whether it was bad enough to deserve the word abuse and begin asking:

What happened to me?
How did it make me feel?
What did I learn to silence in myself in order to live with it?

Because our shame can minimise the event.

It cannot erase its impact.

No one is born saying, “I’m fine.”
We learn it.

Somewhere along the way, we learn that fine is the acceptable answer. The safe answer. The answer that doesn’t require too much explanation, doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable, and doesn’t ask anyone to stop and really listen.

“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”

And so, the words become automatic. They reach our lips before we have even had a chance to notice what is actually happening inside us.

But what is sitting behind that sentence?

Sometimes “I’m fine” means I don’t know how I am.

Sometimes it means I’m struggling, but I don’t know how to say it.

Sometimes it means I’m exhausted, I’m overwhelmed, I’m lonely, I’m angry, I’m grieving, or simply, I need someone to ask me again – and really mean it – really be interested in my answer.

We can become so practised at saying fine or okay that we lose touch with the language of everything that exists underneath those words. We carry on. We do what needs to be done. We show up for other people. We keep moving.

And yet, something inside us may be asking to be noticed.

Therapy offers a place to stop and notice.

Not because you need to have everything figured out before you come.

Not because there is something wrong with you that needs to be fixed.

But because sometimes it takes another person to sit alongside us, gently and without judgement, before we can begin to see what we have been unable to see on our own.

Therapy can offer the experience of being with someone who notices.

Someone who hears the words “I’m fine” but is curious about what might be underneath them.

Someone who notices when your words and the rest of you don’t quite match. When you say you’re okay, but your voice becomes quieter. When you laugh while talking about something that hurts. When you keep saying “it doesn’t really matter” about something that perhaps matters very much.

Noticing is not about analysing every word or searching for something that isn’t there.

It is about being present enough to wonder – to look beyond the words, the smile – to simply be present enough to notice.

How is this really feeling for you?
What happens inside when you talk about that?
I noticed you became quiet just then.
What was happening for you in that moment?

Sometimes, being truly listened to can be the beginning of listening to ourselves.

In therapy, there can be space for the things that don’t always have a place elsewhere – the sadness, anger, fear, confusion, resentment, loneliness, tenderness, hope and uncertainty. The things we may have learnt to minimise, hide or push aside because life seemed to require us to carry on.

You don’t have to arrive knowing exactly what you feel.

You don’t have to know what you need.

You don’t even have to know why you’re there.

You can begin with “I don’t know.”

Or “I’m fine.”

And we can be curious about what comes next.

Because sometimes what we need most isn’t advice, reassurance or someone to tell us that everything will be okay.

Sometimes we need someone to sit with us long enough to notice what is really happening.

To see beyond the automatic answer.

To help us put words to something we have felt but haven’t been able to name.

To remind us that we don’t have to make ourselves smaller, easier or fine in order to be worthy of someone’s attention.

Therapy can become a space where you don’t have to perform being okay.

A space where there is room to be honest, uncertain, messy, angry, sad, hopeful, frightened, relieved – sometimes all within the same conversation.

And perhaps, over time, something changes.

We become a little more able to notice ourselves.

A little more able to recognise when “I’m fine” isn’t quite true.

A little more able to ask, “What is actually happening for me?”

And perhaps we begin to discover that being anything other than fine is not a failure.

It is simply being human.

Sometimes the bravest answer to “How are you?” is not “I’m fine,” but “Let me tell you.”

And therapy can offer a place where someone is there to listen.
To notice.
To stay curious.
To see beyond the “I’m fine.”

So that, little by little, you might begin to hear yourself too.