I lived under the shadow of shame for nearly a decade. Now, I’m officially releasing the power it has had over me. Here’s my story of how a moment of a weakness once tormented me and now empowers me.
Professors generally liked me and she was no different.
A feminist, a liberal, an intellectual, she was genuinely interested in the business of educating students. She took the time to get to know her students and oh Lord, did we worship her. We’d surround her in-between classes — drinking in her every word, no doubt wondering how we could pass off her opinions as our own.
My own reverence took the form of an independent study. I was delighted to have her individual attention during my last semester of university. It was a tough course — I worked harder than I ever had. She went above and beyond the requirements of a supervisor. She’d let me run overtime during our weekly meetings, she chatted with me on Facebook messenger late into the night and whenever I agonized over the paper, she’d extend a compassionate and motivating wake-up call. With her unwavering nourishing help, I created an extensive 70-page paper. I was extremely proud of it. As I put in the finishing touches, I had visions of submitting my work to regional journals, adapting it for the press and using it to get into a Masters program at a prestigious university.
AND THEN, IT HAPPENED.
It was my last week of university, I had a series of exams and papers to manage. In addition to my 70-page opus, I had to write a 10-page paper for another course. I knew I could pull it off in one arduous all-nighter and so I deferred until it was due. Only that night, I got food poisoning. I was violently sick. I went back and forth between the computer lab and toilet so many times that I made a decision I would come to regret for years.
I opened up my 70-page paper. I began to copy and paste bits and bobs to piece together the ten-pager. The topics overlapped, I had done the work anyway — what’s the big deal? I’ll be honest with you, I knew it wasn’t right or straightforward. What I didn’t know, was that I had just committed an act of plagiarism.
Of course, I soon found out.
Later that week, my professor sent me a stern email. It had come to her attention that I had used portions of my independent study for a different course. She used the word disappointed more times than I can bear to remember and said I will have to be penalized.
I wrote back to her, apologizing profusely. I tried to explain why I did what I did. I didn’t care if I failed the other course, it was her course which mattered the most. I am so so so so sorry.
She didn’t reply.
A few days later, I got my grades. I graduated without any major repercussions for my act of plagiarism. Or so it would seem.
Shame. Shock. Frozen in place.
The following weeks I wrote to my professor over and over and over again. I asked to see her, to explain and to gain her forgiveness. I spent a lot of effort crafting the subject message of each email, hoping it would entice her to reply. She never did. She unfriended me on Facebook. I continued writing emails. I had nightmares often, waking up in a panic — horrified to remember I lost the one mentorship I treasured the most.
Six months after the fact, I saw my professor again at a friend’s wedding. My stomach churned. I bit into my lower lip and apprehensively made my way to her. As I spoke to her, my voice shook. I was terrified. If she could pick up on my anxiety, she didn’t show it. She kept her responses monosyllabic. She didn’t return my attempts at conversation. She didn’t smile. She wasn’t rude. She was just cold. Ice-cold. And then, through pursed lips, she excused herself.
That was the last time I ever saw her again.
That was the last time I ever tried to reconnect with her.
I wish I could tell you that it was the last time I felt the crippling sense of shame — but it just isn’t true. I was so ashamed of what I did, I banished myself from going back to my university for fear of running into her. I was so ashamed, I believed myself unworthy to apply for a scholarship or to do my masters. The topic which I believed so wholeheartedly in, took on the form of mental scar tissue. I buried my 70-page paper in the depths of my archives and haven’t looked at it since. For years afterwards, I still had dreams during which I made a different decision on that fateful night.
HOW TO LIVE WITH SHAME
Of course, like all things, the passage of time numbs the pain. The incident doesn’t really play on my mind much anymore. As the years passed, I found ways to break the silence to my small circle of friends and family. The sting lessened until it no longer hurt. Earlier this week, I was reminded of the incident during a conversation with my sister who is working through her own reckoning with a professor. Though her circumstances are entirely different, I remembered the particularities of my murky past and actually found myself smirking.
In her book, Rising Strong, Brene Brown writes: “The difference between I am a screwup and I screwed up may look small, but in fact it’s huge. Many of us will spend our entire lives trying to slog through the shame swampland to get to a place where we can give ourselves permission to both be imperfect and to believe we are enough.”
Phew! Through the lens of my 30-year-old self, I realize its time to shift the narrative of what happened. Writing and publishing this essay is a very important step in accepting, processing and rejecting the shame I’ve felt for years. It is a way of telling myself I’m not ashamed of what I did and I will not let it have any power over me anymore. My hope is that you, dear reader, can feel the very relief rolling off my fingers as I type this. If you have some ridiculous shameful past you’ve allowed control you — here’s the three main lessons I hope you take away from this incident.
1) Shift the narrative around the screw-up:
To paraphrase Brene Brown, I’m no longer allowing myself to be defined as an academic screw-up. Let the record show that yes, I was wrong to plagiarize my own work. Let the record also show that it was an isolated and individual act of weakness amongst an entire lifetime of being a hard-working student. I’m choosing to opt into a different narrative — one which sees my moment of weakness as a blimp, a turning point, a learning curve and truly the moment it was.
How can you re-contextualize the story of shame you have been telling yourself?
2) See how your screw-up helped you:
With the power of retrospect, I have an alternative perspective. Unlike friends who pursued their masters in the humanities, I got a job straight out of university and worked harder than hard. By banishing myself from academia, I pushed myself to climb all sorts of ladders to reach a state of financial independence which has allowed me to currently enjoy the financial freedom I’ve always longed for. Had things been different, perhaps I would have gotten academic degree, after academic degree — getting a lot in the way of intellectual cred but not much financial freedom.
How has shame helped you to become the person you are today?
3) Hold everyone accountable in the screw-up:
When we live with shame, it is easy for us to assume the entirety of the blame. The greedy martyr within almost demands the bulk of the blame for a delicious painful feast of self-flagellation. This notion isn’t helpful and it certainly isn’t true. I am now able to question my professor’s reaction to the entire incident. Sure, her reaction to me initially was fair — but I wonder why she chose to ignore my repeated attempts at reconciliation? The way she pursed her lips when we last met seemed uncharacteristic and almost cruel. I guess I will never know why she reacted the way she did, but I now think her reaction says more about her than about me. This isn’t to pass on the blame — but to accept my share and leave the rest on the table.
How have you usurped accountability for another’s role in your story of shame?
Phew.
If something within this article resonated with you, I’d encourage you to make the time today to reflect. If you have your own little secret of shame eating you from within, start the process to claim your life back. Now that I’ve outed myself — I have to say it all seems absolutely ridiculous. If you can think of somebody who could really benefit from this story, please send it to them. The more we unburden ourselves from the shackles of shame, regret and unhappiness — the more we will live with a sense of vitality, freedom and joy.
