Dad & Daughter Book Club

How a book club with my Dad was the gateway to unravelling my shame.

This essay has been years in the making really. It’s taken me a long time to find the courage to write some of these words, especially the facts of my history. There are parts of me clamouring loudly to stop me publishing this essay.

“It’s not safe. You’ll regret it. You’ll dishonour the dead. You’re re-traumatising yourself. People won’t believe you. It wasn’t that bad. You’re wasting your time.”

Lots of voices trying to protect me because for a long time it wasn’t safe to be this vulnerable. Protection was necessary. 

I wanted to share this, despite these internal protestations, because I believe I’m ready. Ready to bravely heal. And to shine a small guiding lamp for anyone out there who needed to hear some of my story. For whatever solace that might bring, and whatever small courage that might inspire in you. 

I appreciate each and every one of you for reading this and wish you empowerment on your own path of self-awareness and self-love.

Last December we had some Dad and daughter time on a frosty countryside walk nearby my parents’ home in Hertfordshire in the UK, and took a cheeky pub detour for a warm and spicy mulled wine. 

The fire was lit, fairy lights twinkled overhead and two huge nutcracker figurines at the entrance safeguarded our intimate chats.

I shared that my year had been tumultuous and that I was working through some personal baggage still. 

This was news to my Dad, especially the part I shared about still carrying shame about some of my traumatic history. 

In the spirit of pursuing airing my trauma (in the hope that this will help diminish my shame) I am going to share the blunt facts here now. In 2018 I left a long-term relationship with an alcoholic who, in 2021, died from alcohol and drug abuse. To add a layer of complexity, I only felt free to come out as a lesbian once I had left that relationship in my 30s.

“If someone said to me what would she have to be ashamed about, I’d say nothing!” My Dad responded, almost aghast. This baffled me. It seems bleedingly obvious what I should be shameful of! Not leaving an emotionally abusive relationship sooner, not knowing myself better, not coming out sooner, hiding for so long.

But this was soothing to hear. To be reminded of the strength of his love. To gain some outside perspective.

As Brene Brown says, “Shame is the most powerful, master emotion.” It makes you feel unworthy of love, ultimately not good enough, and slivers its tendrils into many aspects of your life. 

My shame is more than an annoying voice shushing or distracting me, persuading me out of free choice. It’s a little swamp-like gremlin that lives in a jail cell deep inside my chest. It cowers in its cold, mossy abandonment feeling disgusting and knowing how the other parts of me feel disgusted by it. 

My shame makes my chest cave in and my cheeks pinch up so that I squint slightly like I’m ready for an onslaught of judgment I’m convinced I’m worthy of. It’s the feeling of wincing and hiding at the same time. Protecting my body as it’s metaphorically curled up in a ball on the floor. 

It’s not a nice feeling, so I try to avoid it.

The hardest part of my shame? I am ashamed of my shame. I know, this is getting meta. The result of this is that I don’t share my shame very often. Which is really not a very good tactic at tackling it, because it then lurks in the background of conversations and things I do (or don’t do), whispering edits to my life.

To be fair to my Dad’s reaction, the fact that I still have shame is also a surprise to me. 

“I’d like to understand this better, so that I understand you better,” My Dad said.

“Me too.” I agreed.

Starting the Book Club

Fast forward to a hazy January day and me announcing to my partner “I want to read more this year.” I want to maintain a healthy rhythm of learning. But this is one of those new year’s resolutions (NYR) primed for failing. Too broad, too vague. Read what? What does more mean?

I knew I needed a strategy. 

I’m an end of the scale extrovert and so I thought, “how can I make reading a community sport?”

Not my most innovative brainwave I admit (book clubs have arguably been around since Socratic circles of 400 B.C.), but I landed on a one to one book club being my route to success.

This one wasn’t going to be the typical ‘read a whole book, meet once a month’ formula though. This time we’d go chapter by chapter, week by week. Meeting on a Monday to speak about what we’d underlined from the chapter in the previous week.

However, there’s a little more to this story than hand holding my educational NYR.

The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk

“Trauma breeds shame: not only because we are left feeling helpless and out of control, but also because the imprint of trauma is stored in our bodies.” Van der Kolk

This book, the go to text on embodiment and trauma, has sat on my multiple nomadic shelves for over two years. Foreshadowing my choice to move into the world of self-development and body-oriented coaching.

It’s not just material that will support my career though, it’s the book I’ve needed to read to understand my own trauma.

Something in me hasn’t been ready until now though, and I’m learning to honour that pace of life. You come to things when you are ready to come to them.

Fast forward to the dawn of this year, and my brainstorm on doing a one-to-one weekly book club. My Dad’s words were lingering in my emotional subconscious. He’d also followed up to ask if there were any books he could read on trauma.

Ding ding ding.

“Well there’s one I’ve been meaning to get through for a while. Shall we read it together?” I tentatively reach out.  

I knew that this was going to be one giant and messy dive into naming and shaming my trauma on a weekly basis, out loud with my dad.

But as Brene explains, “If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.”

Our First Book Club Meeting

Right on the hour Dad called and I answered with book in hand and glasses perched.

“Our first book club session!” I joked.

“My first ever book club!” Dad laughed back.

I’d underlined the fourth sentence of the prologue, “A quarter of us grew up with alcoholic relatives,” we were splashing around in deep and familiar waters.

We’d learned that trauma produces actual physiological changes in the brain including in its ‘fight/flight/freeze/fawn’ alarm system. I shared how comforting this was to know. I’ve been changed by the events of my history and that’s the scientific reason why this shame lingers.

“Trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the imprint left by the experience on the mind, brain and body… [finding] the words to describe what has happened to them is profoundly meaningful, but usually is not enough… For real change to take place, the body needs to learn that the danger has passed and to live in the reality of the present.” Van der Kolk

I’d also written in the margins ‘why I stayed so long’ no less than four times in the first 37 pages. Without knowing me, Bessel was articulating why traumatised people in my situation are stuck. That this is a steep and pathless mountain to clamber up, that many can’t hike alone.

I could give myself a bit of a break. 

Our first meeting held that nervous knowing this is right where we’re meant to be. We shared clunky words previously unspoken. “How have you seen this show up in your life?” I asked Dad, and he did the same back to me. 

I was doing the work. 

And I cried. Those good sorts of tears when your body is flushing and organising itself. Dad checked I was ok. “More than ok. Thank you Dad.” I released.

We signed off after an hour and I closed the book and smoothed out its beaten corners. I’d waited to read these gateway words inside and smiled at the gift that intuitive pause had given me.  

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I am a Somatic Coach and through my writing attempt to capture the human experience, through our minds and bodies. If you’re interested in what Somatic Coaching is or would like to try it, find out more about it here.

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Thanking my writing buddies Rob Tourtelot, Rebecca Isjwara, Harrison Moore and Miche Priest for their invaluable feedback and loving encouragement on getting this one over the line (and soothing my shame in the process).