Undoing Guilt

Guilt has loved me more than a man loves his first woman, and it has stuck to my ass like a good pair of wax jeans.

There was a time when guilt enveloped me — my mind, my choices, my sense of self. It influenced how I moved through the world and fueled the negative emotions I couldn’t seem to shake. With every interaction, guilt entered the chat like clockwork. Everything felt like my fault, and I could never name why. There was always that nagging sense that something I said or did — even with good intentions — was wrong. And it wasn’t just that I did something wrong. I felt wrong as a person.

I don’t know when I started second‑guessing myself, but I replayed every conversation for “quality assurance,” every decision, every moment. The cycling went on so long that feeling wrong became second nature. I apologized for things I wasn’t responsible for. I blamed myself for situations I wasn’t even connected to. It was draining — but then again, depression always is. Still, I had to ask: What exactly was I guilty of?

When I sit with that question now, what comes to mind are the false accusations that were stains on my early life. Whether it was being accused of stealing something valuable — when I hadn't, lying, or being responsible for any number of random situations. And then there was the day I was blamed for a brutal attack on someone I love.

The girl responsible was much older than me, and had been spiraling in her own life, grasping for a sense of control of something — at least that’s what I now suspect. Days before, she had randomly decided to bully me, something completely out of character for her, at least in my experience. The encounter ended with her biting the hell out of me, and me instinctively biting back. I never told anyone what happened, so I still don’t know if the attack days later had anything to do with it — but it certainly felt connected.

What made it worse was how random it all seemed. The fight she picked came out of nowhere, and the person she chose to hurt was the most unproblematic person you could meet. Yet somehow, my simply being there made the attack my fault. I think about that day often, and over time I’ve realized how moments like that fed the guilt I carried — guilt for things I didn’t do, couldn’t control, and didn’t deserve.

Then there were the macro and microaggressions from adult relatives. I eventually tied their behavior to some deep, dark secret about my father — something I still don’t know. As far as I understood, he was a stain, and so was I. So naturally, I expected to be treated that way. A sad story, yes — but it doesn’t end there.

Hindsight is 20/20, and through the right lenses I can now see the influences that shaped the guilt and shame. There were the green‑eyed types, hate‑filled relatives, religious leadership manipulation, and — most importantly — my own thoughts about myself.

Previously, I’ve journaled about my battle with feeling inferior and how my distorted self‑image shaped my world. That same distortion also fed the guilt and shame I carried. But what did I need to be ashamed of? What was I guilty of? Of course, I had imperfections, but nothing so egregious that I deserved to wear guilt like a name tag in every encounter. Who can live like that? No wonder I struggled to exist. I was carrying crosses that didn’t belong to me and giving myself no grace at all.

The guilt was also a symptom of something deeper: depression. Looking back, it makes sense. Guilt and depression were friends — and my enemies. Guilt showed up everywhere, and in every form. I apologized often when I hadn't done anything to be apologetic for — often having friends and acquaintances acknowledge my apologetic nature. I felt bad for saying no, and I constantly replayed every interaction. The self‑criticism was harsh and unrelenting — so much so that it overshadowed my ability to recognize any of the wonderful qualities I possessed.

 I can recall one Thanksgiving in particular — a year when I was deep in my inner work and craving nothing more than quiet, comfort, and the simple joy of cooking at home with my son. I didn’t have a desire or the willpower to be around anyone else. I just wanted peace in solitude. Still, I was responsible for bringing part of the meal to the family dinner.

This wasn’t a spur‑of‑the‑moment desire to isolate. The feeling had been churning in me for months, and as the holiday approached, the pull toward solitude grew stronger. And right alongside it, guilt grew too. I felt wrong for wanting to choose myself. Wrong for wanting to do something that brought me comfort instead of putting my family first.

I decided I would still prepare my dishes in advance, but I would spend the holiday at home, in a way that made sense for me. I found my courage and told my family that I would contribute the dishes that I intended to provide, but I wouldn’t be attending. I even felt the need to explain that it was what I needed for my own well‑being. But I knew it wasn’t necessary — and it wouldn’t matter anyway. A type of disappointment was to be expected — and it cut me — but the moment I released the words, a weight lifted off me. It was the first time I chose myself in a moment where guilt had always made the choice for me.

The remedy to overcoming the guilty complex did not change much from the remedy to challenge inferiority and insecurity. It required challenging the beliefs I held about myself and challenging the feelings and accompanying thoughts that rode along with guilt and shame. It was simple in theory, but nearly impossible in practice...at first.

I had to intentionally focus on my self‑talk and become aware of my feelings. I had to ask myself whether the guilt I felt was real or inherited. Saying no and standing up for myself felt foreign — wrong, even — but it wasn’t wrong. I had to remind myself that resetting my default would take time, and I didn’t owe anyone anything. Accepting that I had the right to say no, to change my mind, and to set boundaries became foundational to the next phase of my healing. I’m still learning, still unlearning, but I no longer intentionally carry what isn’t mine.

Guilt still visits, but I refuse to allow it to stay.

Enjoy this excerpt from the late Myles Munroe.