Taking up space shouldn’t feel like a radical act—but for many of us, it does.
If your nervous system has been shaped by a lifetime of people-pleasing, code-switching, trauma, perfectionism, or cultural conditioning, then speaking up, asserting your needs, or simply being visible can feel like a full-body alarm. You say the thing. You ask for what you need. You let yourself be seen. And then—bam. Shame.
Not because you actually did anything wrong. But because your body is wired to think you did.
When you take up space, you might feel shame afterward. That’s normal. Shame, in this case, is like sore muscles after a workout—perhaps just a sign that you’re using parts of yourself that haven’t been used in a while.
Yes.
Shame, in this case, isn’t a moral signal. It’s not telling you that you were too loud, too much, too needy, too sensitive, too bossy, too opinionated, too anything. It’s telling you: This is unfamiliar.
And unfamiliar doesn’t always mean unsafe, even though it might feel that way in your body.
Many of us were trained—explicitly or implicitly—not to take up space. We learned to swallow our needs, our ideas, our rage, our grief, our brilliance. We were praised for being easygoing, agreeable, accommodating. We made ourselves small in rooms that never made space for us to be big.
So now, when we say “no,” set a boundary, speak on a panel, or simply wear something that makes us feel powerful, shame arrives.
It arrives not because we’ve taken something from someone else—but because our nervous systems associate “being visible” with “being in danger.”
That shame is a signal, but not the kind you need to obey. It’s a flare from a younger part of you, one who remembers what happened the last time you were “too much.” Maybe you were shamed, punished, ignored, or rejected. Maybe the cost of being seen was too high.
So now, even when it is safe, your body doesn’t believe it.
But here’s where the shift happens.
If you can stay with the discomfort—not bypass it, not stuff it down, but be with it—you start to rewrite the pattern. You teach your system that showing up doesn’t lead to exile. That it’s possible to take up space and still be held, still be safe, still be loved.
Another piece of the quote I love:
“That discomfort doesn’t mean you’ve taken someone else’s space. It just means you’re learning that there is room for you, too.”
We live in a culture that treats space as zero-sum, especially for people socialized as women, BIPOC, queer folks, disabled folks, and others whose existence has been pushed to the margins. So it’s no surprise that claiming space—especially emotional or intellectual space—can feel like a threat to others and to ourselves.
But we don’t live in a pie-chart reality where one person’s fullness subtracts from another’s. Space expands. When you show up, others who’ve been hiding can see that it’s possible.
Your voice makes room for more voices. Your boundaries help others name theirs. Your presence becomes an invitation—not a competition.
When the shame comes rushing in after you’ve shared, spoken, or shown up, here’s what you can try:
Taking up space is a practice. It’s not about being loud for the sake of being loud—it’s about allowing your full self to be here. It’s about learning that there’s room for you—not just to exist, but to thrive.
So if you feel the urge to step forward, and then the shame comes fast and hard: Stay with it.
That’s where the shift happens.
That’s where you meet the you that’s been waiting to breathe.
