The Bucket on My Head

When Shame Told Me to Hide and Love Opened the Closet Door

When I was in third grade, my teacher had a rule: if you got caught chewing gum in class, you had to stick it on your nose.

One day at recess, my best friend and I put a giant piece of pink bubble gum in our mouths. We spent the entire recess blowing bubbles and laughing. We were having so much fun that we completely forgot to spit it out when the bell rang.

Within moments of returning to class, our teacher noticed.
"Put the gum on your noses," she said.

That large piece of sticky pink gum covered a good portion of my nose and even blocked part of my vision. I glanced over at my friend. She wore hers almost like a badge of honor.
I, on the other hand, felt something very different.

I felt shame.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

It was probably only a few minutes before the teacher let us throw the gum away, but to me it felt much longer. My dad was the assistant principal, and I was convinced the teacher would tell him what I had done. I just knew I was going to be in trouble.

The shame followed me for the rest of the school day.

By the time I got home, it had grown so large in my mind that I went upstairs, grabbed a bucket, climbed into my closet, shut the door, put the bucket on my head, and cried.

Looking back, it's a little funny. But at the time, it felt devastating.

It wasn't long before my mom found me.

I can still picture what she saw when she opened the closet door: her daughter sitting in the dark with a bucket on her head, convinced she had done something terrible.

To her credit, she somehow managed not to laugh.

Instead, she sat beside me and listened while I poured out the whole story.

Then she did something beautiful.

She comforted me.

She wasn't worried about the mistake. She was worried about her daughter.

She explained that chewing gum in class wasn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes. Everything would be okay. Most importantly, she reminded me that I was still loved.

Later, when my dad came home, we told him what had happened. I expected disappointment.
Instead, he was more concerned that I had been publicly embarrassed. He reassured me. He loved me.

There was no shame coming from either of my parents.

I've thought about that experience many times over the years.

What stands out to me now is that the shame I felt that day didn't come from my parents. It didn't come from my teacher either and honestly, it didn't really come from the gum.
It came from the story I started believing about myself.
Somewhere between wearing that gum on my nose and putting a bucket on my head, I stopped thinking, I made a mistake, and started believing, I am the mistake.

Now, when thoughts like that creep in, I've learned to ask myself a simple question.
Who told me that?

Because that certainly wasn't my Heavenly Father.

The Holy Ghost lovingly helps us recognize when we need to repent or change. The Spirit teaches, guides, and invites us to become better.

But shame speaks differently. Shame convinces us that because we made a mistake, we are the mistake.

It tells us to hide.

I've come to believe that's one of Satan's greatest lies, that after we've made a mistake, we should hide from the very person who can heal us.

When Adam and Eve partook of the fruit, they hid. I've always found that interesting.
It wasn't Heavenly Father who hid from them.
They hid from Him and then Heavenly Father did something beautiful.

He came looking for them.

I think that's still what He does.

When we're carrying embarrassment, regret, or shame, He doesn't wait for us to become perfect before coming closer.

He comes looking for us.

One of my favorite parts of this story is imagining my mom opening that closet door.
The older I get, the more I think that's what Heavenly Father's love looks like.

He doesn't shame us into coming back.
He opens the door.
He sits beside us.
He reminds us we are still loved.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are still sitting in metaphorical closets wearing buckets on our heads.
Maybe it's because of something that happened last week.
Maybe it's because of something that happened years ago.
Maybe we've listened to the voice of shame for so long that we've forgotten what our Father's voice sounds like.

If that's you, can I ask you a question?
Who told you that?

Because I don't think it was Heavenly Father.

Sometimes I think about that little third-grade girl sitting alone in her closet with a bucket on her head. If I could sit beside her today, I'd put my arm around her and ask:

"Sweet girl... who told you that?"

Because it wasn't her mom.
It wasn't her dad.
And it certainly wasn't her Heavenly Father.

He's not standing outside the closet waiting to remind her of her mistake.
He's the One opening the door.
He's the One sitting beside her.
He's the One reminding her she is still loved.
Maybe that's the question we all need to ask when shame starts telling us who we are:
Who told you that?

My amazing parents

XOXO

Tiffanee

Keep Walking Through the Fog

Sometimes clarity doesn’t come when we stop and wait.  It comes as we keep going.

Last fall, my son came to visit for his birthday. He had two things he really wanted to do: go to a couple of Mariners games and make the drive to Mount Rainier to complete a pretty challenging hike.

We left early that morning, hopeful but a little unsure. The weather wasn’t great. It was raining, and the fog was so thick we could barely see anything around us. As we drove higher and higher, the fog only grew denser. It felt like we were just driving deeper into it, not out of it.

At one point, we started to question it.
Should we keep going? Is this even worth it? Are we going to get all the way up there and not see anything?

There was a real pull to just turn around and go home.

But then, almost instantly, everything changed.

We turned a corner, and there it was....Mount Rainier, clear and breathtaking, sitting under a bright blue sky, with sunlight breaking through in a way we hadn’t seen all morning. It honestly felt like someone flipped a switch. One moment we were surrounded by heaviness and uncertainty, and the next we were standing in light and clarity.

As we hiked that day and climbed higher, one of the most striking things was looking out and seeing that same thick fog and cloud layer sitting below us. Everything that had felt so heavy earlier was still there, but now we were above it.

I’ve thought about that experience so many times since.

Because honestly, life can feel a lot like that drive.

There are times when we feel surrounded by fog, spiritually and emotionally.  We feel unsure, discouraged, or just not feeling the clarity we’re hoping for. Sometimes we’re doing all the “right” things, and still, we just can’t see very far ahead.

In those moments, it’s easy to start questioning:
Is this working? Should I keep going? Why can’t I feel what I used to feel?

That fog narrows our view until all we see is what’s right in front of us.

But just like that experience on the mountain, the fog is not the whole story.

Christ is.

He is the source of light and clarity we’re searching for. Often, instead of removing the fog immediately, He invites us to keep moving forward, walking with Him.

That idea of continuing forward feels so real to me. It doesn’t mean everything is clear. It doesn’t mean it’s easy. It simply means choosing not to turn back.

I’ve found that turning to Christ in those foggy moments takes intention. It often looks simple:

• A quiet, honest prayer when words feel hard to find
• Opening the scriptures, even when it feels routine
• Choosing to believe He is there, even when we can’t feel Him clearly
• Slowing down long enough to notice small reminders of His love

Sometimes it’s less about doing something big and more about not turning back.

Because that’s the temptation. When we’re in the fog, we want to retreat. We want clarity before we continue because it feels uncertain, even scary.

But what if, like that drive, the clarity comes because we continue?

That day on Mount Rainier became a gentle reminder to me that the fog can feel overwhelming, but it is not permanent and it is never greater than Christ.

As we press forward with Him, little by little, He lifts us and gently helps us see.

And often, we come to realize that the light was always there.
We just needed His help to rise above what was blocking our view.

 I’m so grateful that He never asks us to find our way through the fog alone and that He walks with us every step of the way.

It was a tough hike that day, but I am thankful for that time I had with my son and the memories and lessons learned.

XOXO

Tiffanee