The Time I Diagnosed Myself with a Shame Snake
The first time I had sex, my mother walked in. I was eighteen, not nearly as sneaky as I thought I was, and always experimenting with the delicate line of what I might be able to get away with and still be loved. As she pushed open my bedroom door, carrying the full weight of the Puritan patriarchy soup we’d been cooked in, my co-conspirator and I looked over in horror. He transitioned from one activity to another with remarkable speed, launching himself into the air like he was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
My mother surveyed the scene with the grim composure of a woman discovering raccoons in the attic. "We'll talk about this in the morning." Then she confiscated my cell phone and held it hostage for a month.
Looking back, I don't think my mother was trying to teach me that sex was shameful. I think she was trying to be a good mother according to the instructions she'd been given. Unfortunately, those instructions had been written by generations of people who were deeply suspicious of female desire. Whatever her intentions, though, the experience was both mortifying and highly influential on my sex life moving forward.
While I can now appreciate it as comedy gold, at the time it felt more like a cold pit of shame, guilt, and existential terror. Somewhere deep in my nervous system, a lesson I'd already been absorbing from the culture clicked firmly into place: Sex = Punishment.
Years later, I found myself fresh out of a divorce and sitting in a room full of energy healers and spiritual practitioners for our monthly gathering. A few days earlier, I had slept with someone for the first time since my marriage ended. After years of being with only my ex-husband, it felt significant. Tender. Terrifying. And now I could feel the unmistakable beginnings of a UTI.
I was furious. And also thinking: Yep. Sounds about right. Here comes the punishment. Fortunately, my friend Colleen—a network spinal chiropractor and impossibly intuitive human—was leading a healing exercise.
"Focus on a symptom in your body," she said. "Maybe it's an ache or a cough. Maybe it's something new or long-standing. Just settle your attention there."
I focused on the urinary discomfort, simultaneously trying to sense it and convince myself it wasn't actually happening. Maybe it wasn't a UTI. Maybe I was imagining it. Or maybe it was something much worse. My mind immediately chose Door Number Three. What if this isn't a UTI? What if it's an STI? What if it's some more permanent condition? Do I have HIV now? Do I have to fill out yet another prior authorization for Cabenuva?
The spiral accelerated with remarkable efficiency. And suddenly I was back in divorce court. I was dressed in a sharp blue suit and heels, trying desperately to project the image of a woman who had her life together. In reality, I was living with my parents, trying to build a business as a witch, grieving the collapse of a marriage, and reconstructing an entire life from the foundation up. My soon-to-be ex-husband stood a short distance away, already through security. I waved. He waved back. There was no reason this couldn't be amicable.
Then I set off the metal detector. A young male officer—twenty-something, earnest, probably not adequately compensated for what was about to happen—began searching my brown leather work bag while my ex-husband watched from nearby. The officer pulled items out one at a time, holding them up to the light with the enthusiasm of a man searching for buried treasure. A gold hair clip. A pen. A notebook. Then, directly beneath the hair clip, he found a small box of condoms. There were only three. I was cautiously optimistic. I had purchased them after leaving my marriage in a brief and hopeful moment where I thought: Perhaps I shall sex again someday.
Now this poor man was standing in divorce court holding physical evidence that I was attempting to move on with my life. His eyes flicked from me to my soon-to-be ex-husband. Then back to me. Then back to my ex-husband. A look of pure panic crossed his face. He shoved the condoms back into my bag with the urgency of someone covering up a crime scene and sent me on my way. Off I went to get divorced.
Back in Colleen's meditation, my internal catastrophe was still unfolding. "Now imagine the symptom as an animal or natural force," she said. "Maybe a storm."
Immediately, I saw a snake. Not a wise snake. Not a mystical snake. Not a kundalini snake. An angry, toothy asshole of a snake.
It was wrapped tightly around my urethra, choking off the exit and looking deeply suspicious of both healing and cranberry juice.
"You don't have to fix it," Colleen said. "Just witness it."
The snake grew larger, girthier. It uncoiled itself from my urinary tract and slithered upward, wrapping around my shoulders like an enormous boa constrictor scarf.
“Ask it what it wants to tell you."
I looked it in the eye, defiant. "What do you want?" The snake didn't answer. It just flicked its tongue and settled its weight across my shoulders and behind my head. "Fine," I thought. "Be mysterious."
As we sat there in silence, I found myself contemplating the absurdity of the situation. Where the hell did this imagination of mine come from? How had I managed to transform mild urethral discomfort into a reptilian fever dream with strong Old Testament vibes? More importantly, how had I gone from counseling people on medications for hypertension and diabetes to participating in what appeared to be a hostage negotiation with a symbolic reptile?
At no point during pharmacy school had anyone suggested this as a treatment modality.
And yet.
Even as I questioned every life choice that had brought me to this moment, the snake had begun to feel comforting. Familiar. It was like meeting someone I'd been living with for years and seeing their face for the first time.
When the exercise ended, Colleen invited people to share. I described my slithering visitor.
"What do you think it was trying to tell you?" she asked, then paused. "When I walked over here earlier, I felt someone's grief. Could it have been that?"
I considered the possibility. Then rejected it almost immediately. Grief too had certainly been mine, but this thing? This thing had the unmistakable odor of shame. Like a fart in a crowded elevator, it had a very specific signature.
My friend Leigh spoke up, "I think the grief was mine."
I nodded. "Yeah." I looked around the room. "I'm pretty sure this was a shame snake." Everyone laughed.
Later that day, the urinary pain disappeared. And in the days that followed, the pharmacist in me kept waiting for the symptoms to return. Girl, you're going to need some Bactrim. I was braced for the other shoe to drop. For the punishment. For someone to throw open the door and catch me again. Naked. Afraid. Guilty. Wrong. But nothing happened. No infection. No catastrophe. No cosmic consequence. Just a snake.
That's the strange thing about shame. It thrives in the dark. It coils itself around our most tender places and convinces us it's protecting us from danger when it's often just protecting us from freedom. Maybe that's what symptoms are sometimes trying to do—not punish us, but introduce themselves. I don’t know if every ache is medicine or if every pain is symbolic, but I do know that every once in a while, something we've been carrying for years steps into the light and says: "Hi. I've been trying to get your attention."
The snake wasn't the UTI. The snake wasn't even the divorce. The snake was the ancient belief that desire is dangerous. That pleasure requires punishment. That if I wandered too far from the approved path, someone—or something—would eventually catch me and make me pay for it.
My mother didn't invent that story. She inherited it. So did I. She was simmering in the same soup I was. The difference is that on this particular day, sitting in a circle of women healers with an imaginary snake wrapped around my shoulders, I finally stopped trying to outrun it and looked it in the eye.
The funny thing is, I still occasionally expect punishment to show up. Some old stories don't leave all at once. But now when they slither out of the shadows, I recognize them a little faster. And once you've finally met a shame snake, it doesn't have to squeeze quite so hard.
A Spell to Meet Your Shame Snake Roommate
Intention
To stop mistaking shame for truth.
To become acquainted with the part of yourself that expects punishment.
To discover whether the terrifying thing lurking in the shadows is actually just an emotionally overinvested reptile.
To remember that some of the things squeezing you are not trying to kill you; they're trying to get your attention.
Materials
A bowl of water
A candle
A piece of paper and a pen
A comfortable place to sit
Optional: cranberry juice
Optional: a small snake figurine
Optional: dramatic music befitting a confrontation with an ancient nemesis
Ritual
1. Prepare the meeting.
Light the candle. Place the bowl of water in front of you.
Take a moment to reflect on something in your life that feels emotionally charged out of proportion to the actual circumstances. Perhaps you sent a text and are convinced you've ruined everything. Perhaps you made a mistake and are awaiting immediate exile from society. Perhaps you experienced pleasure and are unconsciously waiting for the Universe to invoice you.
Notice what arises.
2. Locate the snake.
Close your eyes. Imagine the feeling you've chosen as a creature.
Do not attempt to make it noble.
Do not attempt to make it spiritual.
Do not attempt to make it a majestic phoenix.
If your nervous system presents you with a cranky snake, a suspicious possum, a raccoon carrying emotional baggage, or an angry goose, accept the assignment.
Observe the creature. Where is it? What is it doing? How long has it been there? More importantly: How long has it been trying to get your attention?
3. Introduce yourself.
Imagine sitting beside the creature. Not across from it. Beside it. Like reluctant roommates.
Look at it and say: "Hello. I believe we've been living together for quite some time." Pause.
Notice what happens.
You do not need to fix anything.
You do not need to heal anything.
You do not need to evict anything.
You are simply acknowledging a cohabitation arrangement that has apparently been in effect for years.
4. Ask one question.
Look at the creature and ask: "What are you trying to protect me from?" Wait. Listen.
Do not argue. Even if the answer sounds ridiculous. Especially if the answer sounds ridiculous.
Many shame snakes are operating on information that was last updated sometime around middle school. Be compassionate. They're doing their best.
5. Offer a promotion.
On your piece of paper, write:
Thank you for trying to protect me.
Then write:
Your services are no longer required in this capacity.
If you wish, you may offer your shame snake a new role.
Suggestions include:
Assistant Director of Discernment
Chief Boundary Officer
Vice President of Pattern Recognition
Emotional Support Reptile
The goal is not termination. The goal is reassignment.
6. Bless the snake.
Place your hand over your heart. Imagine the creature relaxing. Imagine its grip loosening. Imagine both of you taking a long breath.
Say:
"I release the belief that pleasure requires punishment.
I release the belief that desire is dangerous.
I release the belief that love must be earned through suffering.
May I meet myself with curiosity.
May I meet myself with humor.
May I meet myself with compassion.
And may all snakes within my energetic field receive appropriate job training."
Closing
Dip your fingers into the bowl of water and touch your forehead, throat, and heart.
Take one final breath.
Remember: Not every ache is symbolic. Not every symptom is a message. But every once in a while, something you've been carrying for years steps into the light and says: "Hi. I've been trying to get your attention." And once you've finally met it, it doesn't have to squeeze quite so hard.
Download this spell to add to your grimoire here: