I love when people tell me their secrets.
In my work as a psychotherapist, I sit with thoughtful, high-functioning people—leaders, creatives, people others rely on—who carry a lot of responsibility in their lives. And one of the things that often comes with that is that there are parts of themselves they’ve never fully revealed. Not because they’re dishonest, and not because they’re hiding something terrible, but because somewhere along the way, that part of them became wrapped in shame.
And when you’re someone who is visible—someone who is trusted, relied upon, looked to—there can be a very real sense that you have more to lose if certain parts of you were to be seen. There’s often a calculation subtly running in the background: If people knew this about me, would they still trust me? Would they still see me the same way? So those parts stay hidden.
And that hiding has a cost.
Shame isn’t just a thought. It has a physiology. It lives in the body as contraction, as holding, as a kind of internal bracing. Sometimes you can see it—tight shoulders, a slight hunch, a pulling inward—but often, especially with people who are highly capable and outwardly composed, it’s much more subtle. It’s internal. It’s the effort it takes to manage how you’re perceived, to keep certain parts of yourself out of view, to maintain a version of yourself that feels acceptable.
That effort adds up over time. It can show up as tension, as fatigue, as a low-grade pressure that’s always there in the background. It shapes how you lead, how you speak, how much of yourself you allow into the room. You might hesitate before saying what you really think, or find yourself over-managing how you come across. You might notice that even when things are going well, there’s a part of you that never fully exhales. Not because anything is “wrong,” but because something is being held.
There’s also a kind of double bind that forms around this. On one hand, there’s the instinct to keep it hidden—to stay composed, contained, in control. On the other hand, there’s this growing message that the way to be free is to share everything, to be radically open, to tell your whole story. For some people, that path genuinely fits. But for many of the people I work with, it doesn’t. It feels exposing in a way that isn’t actually helpful, like it would create more pressure rather than relieve it.
And the truth is, you don’t have to tell everyone your story to free yourself from the tension of holding it in.
What I’ve seen, again and again, is that it often only takes one safe place. One relationship where that part of you can surface and be met differently. There’s a moment when someone first lets that hidden part of themselves come into the room and says the thing they’ve never said out loud before. And if it’s met with steadiness, with curiosity, with care, something shifts in real time. In that very moment.
It’s almost physical. It’s like the shame oxidizes. The tension that’s been holding that story in place begins to loosen, the body softens, the breath deepens, and something that was tightly wound starts to uncoil. Not because the story itself has changed, but because it’s no longer being held alone.
From there, the changes can ripple outward in ways that are hard to predict but unmistakable when they happen. I’ve seen someone who didn’t feel entitled to take up space in their work step into their authority and grow into leadership, eventually being promoted to partner—and then again into a role that was even more aligned. I’ve seen someone who believed they didn’t deserve to be a parent step into a joyful, grounded family life. I’ve seen someone who was certain that telling the truth about their past would lead to rejection put their story into print and be met with connection instead.
Not because they forced themselves into visibility or performed vulnerability, but because something that had been held in shame was finally met with safety.
If you’re reading this and there’s a part of you that comes to mind—something you’ve kept tucked away, even from yourself—my invitation isn’t to tell everyone. It’s not to push yourself into exposure before you’re ready. It’s simply to take one small, safe step.
That might mean writing a single, honest sentence in a journal and letting yourself name it, even briefly. Then stepping away, letting your body settle, letting it integrate. Or it might mean letting one other person know, in whatever way feels manageable. Someone you trust enough to be met with care rather than judgment.
Because healing doesn’t come from forcing yourself into the light. It comes from creating enough safety that what’s been held in the dark can begin to soften, move, and breathe. And often, it only takes one place where you feel safe enough to begin.
Anna Holtzman is a psychotherapist in private practice in New York, working with thoughtful, high-functioning adults who want their work and relationships to feel more sustainable, satisfying, and their own.