October Blog - Shame
What KPop Demon Hunters can teach us about Shame
I never expected a Netflix animated KPop film to leave me thinking about one of the most difficult emotions we experience as human beings.
As an integrative person-centred counsellor, I am often reminded that some of the most powerful lessons about being human come from the stories we connect with.
It feels like 2026 has been taken over by K-Pop Demon Hunters. Like so many people, I found myself caught up in the movie and hearing the songs playing [in what feels like] everywhere!
But for me it wasn't the action or the music that caught my attention most; it was one powerful theme
The more Rumi hides, the louder the demons become.
To me, that is a powerful metaphor for shame.
Shame convinces us to hide the parts of ourselves we fear won't be accepted. We keep quiet, put on a brave face, and hope that if no one sees our struggles, they will eventually disappear. But more often than not, the opposite happens. The more we hide, the heavier the burden becomes.
That is exactly what I saw in Rumi's story.
The more she hides her patterns, the more they seem to spread. The demons grow stronger, her world becomes heavier, and the silence feeds the very thing she is trying to escape.
From a person-centred perspective, I see the impact of conditions of worth. Rumi learns to hide her patterns, not because she is inherently ashamed but because those around her believe secrecy will protect her. Those messages become internalised: Don't let anyone see who you really are.
And that is where shame often grows in silence.
Everything begins to change when Rumi stops hiding.
She speaks her truth. She allows others to see the part of herself she has spent so long trying to conceal. She is not suddenly "healed" or "fixed", but something shifts. The burden is no longer hers to carry alone, and shame begins to loosen its grip.
For me, one of the most moving moments is when her friends discover the truth. They are the very people she fears will reject her. Instead, they stay, and they accept her. They remind her that she is more than the thing she has been taught to hide, much like the therapeutic process of counselling.
In person-centred therapy, we call this unconditional positive regard, being accepted as a person, without judgement or conditions. Alongside empathy and congruence, these core conditions create the safety needed for growth.
Rumi’s patterns do not disappear. Neither does the anger of carrying something she never chose. But she is no longer fighting herself in silence.
To me, that is what self-acceptance looks like.
Acceptance is not about liking every part of ourselves or pretending painful experiences don't exist. It's about meeting ourselves with compassion instead of shame. It is choosing not to turn away from the parts of ourselves that need understanding the most.
This is often what I witness in the counselling room.
Many people come to therapy believing they need to have it all together. They worry they will be judged, that they are "too much" or that parts of their story are too difficult to say out loud.
But therapy is not about having the right words or revealing everything at once.
It's about having a space where you don't have to hide.
A space where you can move at your own pace. Where vulnerability is not expected or forced but gently welcomed when you are ready. Often, it's those moments of allowing yourself to be truly seen that create the deepest change - not because vulnerability solves everything but because shame loses its power when it is met with empathy instead of judgement.
Perhaps that is why Rumi's story resonated with me so deeply.
Whether we think of the demons in the film as shame, anxiety, trauma, grief, depression or the parts of ourselves we have learned to fear, the message feels the same.
The more we hide, the louder it becomes.
Healing doesn’t begin when we become someone different. Sometimes it begins when we realise and start to discover who we really are.
Lynsey Parsons
