The Soul of Shame isn’t just about psychology or theology—it’s about the deep spiritual and neurological patterns that have shaped how I see myself, how I hide, and how I long to be seen. Thompson doesn’t just talk about shame; he names it, traces it, exposes its origins, and, most importantly, invites a different way forward—through connection, vulnerability, and storytelling.
What hit me early on was Thompson’s idea that shame isn’t just a feeling—it’s a story. A broken narrative, planted early, often in childhood, that says: You’re not enough. You’re unworthy. You’re fundamentally flawed. It’s not always loud. Often it’s subtle. In my case, it’s shown up in perfectionism, defensiveness, and hiding. It’s been the voice telling me I’m only as good as my achievements—or that my worst day defines me forever.
Thompson’s insight that shame is both neurobiological and relational made sense to me. I’ve seen how I respond—physically and emotionally—when I feel exposed or judged. I’ve felt my brain spiral in milliseconds when I think I’ve disappointed someone. Shame literally narrows my field of vision. And yet, Thompson also reminded me: we’re wired for joy, for love, for being known. That wiring in me hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just been hijacked by shame.
The theological thread running through this book helped me reflect on my own walk with God. From Eden on, shame’s strategy has been the same: to isolate, to accuse, and to silence. Adam and Eve covered themselves and hid. I’ve done the same—spiritually, emotionally, even physically. But God came looking. Not to condemn. To reconnect.
Shame wants me to hide from God. The Gospel calls me to return, naked and unashamed. Not because I’ve fixed myself, but because Jesus already has. There’s a tenderness in that truth that I often miss.
Thompson talks about how shame disconnects us from our true story. That deeply resonated. For a long time, I’ve let shame be the narrator of my life. But that’s not the story God is telling. God is writing a redemption story—and it includes all of it: the wounds, the regrets, the sins, the grace.
One line I highlighted and keep coming back to is: “We name things in order to take away the power that the unspoken has over us.” I’ve spent much of the last few years learning to name things. The betrayals. The fears. The guilt. The father wounds. My own failings as a father and husband. And it’s true—naming doesn’t fix everything. But it lets the light in. It begins to loosen the grip shame has held on my heart and mind for decades.
The book doesn’t offer a quick fix. Instead, it calls for integration—of mind, body, and spirit. Of memory and meaning. Of community and vulnerability. One thing I’m learning is that healing doesn’t come from hiding. It comes from being known. That means risk. And it means grace.
The part about communities of vulnerability—especially the need for safe, embodied, face-to-face relationships—challenged me. I’ve often tried to “heal alone.” To read, pray, think, and fix it quietly. But Thompson insists: shame is defeated in the presence of others who refuse to turn away. That’s what God does. That’s what I need to learn to do—for others and for myself.
What I’m Taking With Me
Shame is real, and it runs deep—but it doesn’t get the last word.
Healing requires both naming and narrating my story in light of grace.
Vulnerability is the path out. Not after I’ve cleaned up—but especially while I’m still messy.
Jesus came not to shame us, but to bear our shame—and reconnect us with the God who sees, knows, and loves us.
This book didn’t just teach me about shame. It helped me locate it—in my body, my memories, my relationships. And more than that, it gave me hope that the story isn’t over. That redemption is unfolding. That even the most shame-covered parts of my life can be touched by grace and rewritten into something true and whole.
