I once read about the prolific novelist, Nora Roberts, explaining how she managed to balance her writing career with having kids. She allegedly described “the key to juggling is to know that some of the balls you have in the air are made of plastic and some are made of glass.” The plastic balls are the stuff that looks urgent in the moment but doesn’t actually cost you anything if you let them go — they bounce. The glass balls are different. Those are the things that, if you drop them, don’t bounce back. They chip or even shatter.
I loved this idea and really seized it. As my career responsibilities grew and my children got older and their needs more complex, I would intentionally drop balls that I knew would be ok. Let some texts go unanswered for days; turned in library books late; skipped committee-meetings; all while keeping the glass balls mid-air: showing up for kids’ bedtimes; being fully present with my therapy clients; providing consultations to therapists regarding crises.
But early this September I dropped some glass balls. I just had too many of them up in the air. My oldest started high school and a team sport, and almost overnight I was drowning in emails, group texts, and schedule changes. I was doing midday carpools and trying to navigate her increased emotional needs, all while three new therapists started in the practice at the same time. I ended up emailing and texting while walking my dog before sunrise, coming into the office for evening meetings when I promised we’d go to the pool before it closed, trying to be everywhere all at once.
I didn’t plan for the simultaneous transitions the way I should have and I ended up making a time-consuming mistake that undermined feelings of trust.
I felt awful. I hate disappointing others. I hate causing others stress. I hate being under-prepared. I hate letting my team down.
After I realized I made the mistake- I felt angry. I had thoughts like “If only they’d…” and “It shouldn’t be like this…” and more defensive, other-blaming thoughts. After a day or so of nursing those thoughts- I was able to pull back and recognize them for what they were: signs of shame.
Shame is an emotion that tells you something is wrong with you, not with what you did. It says “I am the kind of person who makes this kind of mistake” — careless, unreliable, not enough. And because that feels unbearable, it doesn’t sit still; it turns into defensiveness, blame, the urge to disappear. That’s what those thoughts were doing for me — “if only they’d…” wasn’t really about them. It was my mind’s attempt to get out from under a feeling that had gotten too big.
With some reflection, I was able to identify why I made the mistake I did, the circumstances I was in that led me to it, and more importantly what I’ll do differently next time I’m in a similar situation.
That’s what the shift from shame to guilt actually looks like in practice — not feeling less bad, but feeling bad about something smaller and more specific. Not “I am unreliable” but “I over-booked myself in a season with too little margin, and I didn’t build in a buffer.” One of those statements you can carry around forever. The other one you can actually do something with.
Guilt gave me somewhere to put my energy — an apology that named the real thing, a system I changed, and intentions for future boundaries I will enforce going into busy seasons. Shame just wanted me to hide. Guilt wanted me to repair and improve.
So if you’ve dropped a glass ball recently — here’s the truth:
The ball still broke. You can’t undo that. But you can kneel down, pick up the pieces, trade the “I am” for “I did,” give a genuine apology for the mess, and repair what you can for the future.
