With a paintbrush gripped by my little inexperienced fingers, I’ll never forget the way his voice drove the chills over my skin in unrelenting waves. I froze like prey before a victorious predator, time stood still, my heart exploded out of my chest. I was barely breathing.

Pointing an accusatory finger at me with furious grimace, he bellowed, “What is wrong with you? Get out of my sight and clean yourself up! Don’t even think of coming back unless it’s gone!” As I gazed around the ancient stone-built room in stunned silence, my classmates stood before me staring, barely attempting to conceal their smirks, and pointing as a snickers and snorts of laughter erupted around me.

I must have been about 3 ½ years old when I had my first shaming experience at school. As one of my earliest recollections of childhood, it was a memory that had a huge influence on the way I showed up in my formative years.