Atlas of the Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of Human Experience

by Brené Brown

First, nothing, I mean nothing, was discussed or normalized in my family. Not feelings or fears or periods or friend problems or puberty or money issues or extended family members who struggled with addiction and mental health issues—nothing. We are all good. Any question or attempt to understand the things that were clearly not good was immediately shut down in punitive ways. For children, it’s easy for everything to become a source of shame when nothing is normalized. You assume that if no one is talking about it, it must be just you. Second, my parents were confusing. My parents were and are good people who did the very best they could with the tools they had. Sometimes those tools weren’t enough. Growing up, they seemed to be funny, loving, well liked, smart, great storytellers, and caring neighbors. People loved them. Because they were predictably good outside the house, and wildly unpredictable inside, I assumed it was us. And because I was the oldest, I assumed it was mostly me. And again, it was shaming for all of us when the inside behaviors didn’t match the families on TV. Something was wrong and it must be us. We were wrong.

First, nothing, I mean nothing, was discussed or normalized in my family. Not feelings or fears or periods or friend problems or puberty or money issues or extended family members who struggled with addiction and mental health issues—nothing. We are all good. Any question or attempt to understand the things that were clearly not good was immediately shut down in punitive ways. For children, it’s easy for everything to become a source of shame when nothing is normalized. You assume that if no one is talking about it, it must be just you. Second, my parents were confusing. My parents were and are good people who did the very best they could with the tools they had. Sometimes those tools weren’t enough. Growing up, they seemed to be funny, loving, well liked, smart, great storytellers, and caring neighbors. People loved them. Because they were predictably good outside the house, and wildly unpredictable inside, I assumed it was us. And because I was the oldest, I assumed it was mostly me. And again, it was shaming for all of us when the inside behaviors didn’t match the families on TV. Something was wrong and it must be us. We were wrong.

Everyone, including me, seemed so desperate to feel more connected to their own lives and to one another, but no one was looking in the right places. No one was thinking about how it all works together. Everyone seemed disembodied from their own inner world and disconnected from other people. Too many lonely and secret lives.

Everyone, including me, seemed so desperate to feel more connected to their own lives and to one another, but no one was looking in the right places. No one was thinking about how it all works together. Everyone seemed disembodied from their own inner world and disconnected from other people. Too many lonely and secret lives.

As it turns out, being able to see what’s coming doesn’t make it any less painful when it arrives. In fact, knowing probably just upped my anticipatory anxiety and my intolerance for vulnerability. The eggshells weren’t on the ground; they were duct-taped to the soles of my shoes. I could never step lightly enough or run fast enough to get away from the cracking, so I made everything around me so loud that it drowned out the sound.

As it turns out, being able to see what’s coming doesn’t make it any less painful when it arrives. In fact, knowing probably just upped my anticipatory anxiety and my intolerance for vulnerability. The eggshells weren’t on the ground; they were duct-taped to the soles of my shoes. I could never step lightly enough or run fast enough to get away from the cracking, so I made everything around me so loud that it drowned out the sound.

It’s awful that the same substances that take the edge off anxiety and pain also dull our sense of observation. We see the pain caused by the misuse of power, so we numb our pain and lose track of our own power.

It’s awful that the same substances that take the edge off anxiety and pain also dull our sense of observation. We see the pain caused by the misuse of power, so we numb our pain and lose track of our own power.

Over the course of several years, I learned that if understanding power and the connections between the way we feel, think, and act was my superpower, numbing was my kryptonite.

Over the course of several years, I learned that if understanding power and the connections between the way we feel, think, and act was my superpower, numbing was my kryptonite.

So often, when we feel lost, adrift in our lives, our first instinct is to look out into the distance to find the nearest shore. But that shore, that solid ground, is within us. The anchor we are searching for is connection, and it is internal. To form meaningful connections with others, we must first connect with ourselves, but to do either, we must first establish a common understanding of the language of emotion and human experience.

So often, when we feel lost, adrift in our lives, our first instinct is to look out into the distance to find the nearest shore. But that shore, that solid ground, is within us. The anchor we are searching for is connection, and it is internal. To form meaningful connections with others, we must first connect with ourselves, but to do either, we must first establish a common understanding of the language of emotion and human experience.

In my most recent research on courage and leadership, the ability to embrace vulnerability emerged as the prerequisite for all of the daring leadership behaviors. If we can’t handle uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure in a way that aligns with our values and furthers our organizational goals, we can’t lead.

In my most recent research on courage and leadership, the ability to embrace vulnerability emerged as the prerequisite for all of the daring leadership behaviors. If we can’t handle uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure in a way that aligns with our values and furthers our organizational goals, we can’t lead.

In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences.

In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences.

Now when I start to feel resentful, instead of thinking, What is that person doing wrong? or What should they be doing? I think, What do I need but am afraid to ask for? While resentment is definitely an emotion, I normally recognize it by a familiar thought pattern:

Resentment is the feeling of frustration, judgment, anger, “better than,” and/or hidden envy related to perceived unfairness or injustice. It’s an emotion that we often experience when we fail to set boundaries or ask for what we need, or when expectations let us down because they were based on things we can’t control, like what other people think, what they feel, or how they’re going to react.

To end on a positive note, let’s talk a little about freudenfreude, which is the opposite of schadenfreude—it’s the enjoyment of another’s success. It’s also a subset of empathy.

I’m sharing this research with you because I think it’s invaluable to understand. As Steve and I support our kids in learning how to cultivate meaningful connection with the people in their lives, we’ve always told them that good friends aren’t afraid of your light.

One last thing from this article: shoy and bragitude. In an intervention designed by researchers to increase freudenfreude, they coined two new terms to describe behaviors that were very effective: Shoy: intentionally sharing the joy of someone relating a success story by showing interest and asking follow-up questions. Bragitude: intentionally tying words of gratitude toward the listener following discussion of personal successes.

As researcher and writer Sherry Turkle says, “Boredom is your imagination calling to you.”

It was so much easier when we were flying solo with the kids over the weekends—but how on earth could it be easier for Steve to hold down the fort when I’m out of town? Why is it simpler for me to navigate a busy weekend when he’s out of town or on call at the hospital for hours on end? The arguments we had after we spent weekends together often ended with one of us feeling disappointed and angry, and slipping into blaming mode. Our frustration would turn into hurtful jabs: You’re not helpful. You don’t make it any easier. You just make it harder. So painful. I finally said to Steve, “I’m tired of this argument about it being easier without the other one here. It totally hurts my feelings. I feel like I don’t belong here. Something about the story we’re telling ourselves is not true. I don’t believe it.” He confessed that it also hurt his feelings, so we started examining the patterns. It took a lot of trial and error—and several near meltdowns—until Steve finally said, “When it’s just me with the kids, I have no expectations for getting my own stuff done. I give up my to-do list so I can actually enjoy the craziness.” It was that simple.

Now, before weekends, vacations, or even busy school or workweeks, we talk about expectations. We specifically ask each other, “What do you want this weekend to look like?” I might say, “This is going to be a busy weekend. I’m down for whatever we need to do, but I would like to swim at least one day and play pickleball for a couple of hours on Saturday.” Steve might say, “Let’s try to grab dinner, just the two of us, on Saturday night after we drop off Charlie. I’d like to play water polo for a couple of hours on Sunday. What time is pickleball?”

Unexamined and unexpressed expectations can also lead to serious disappointment at work. In Dare to Lead, I write about the power of “painting done.” When I hand off an assignment at work, I will often say “Let me paint done”—and if I don’t, you can be assured that the person on my team will say “I’m on it. But I need you to paint done.” “Painting done” means fully walking through my expectations of what the completed task will look like, including when it will be done, what I’ll do with the information, how it will be used, the context, the consequences of not doing it, the costs—everything we can think of to paint a shared picture of the expectations. It’s one of the most powerful tools we have.

When someone shares their hopes and dreams with us, we are witnessing deep courage and vulnerability. Celebrating their successes is easy, but when disappointment happens, it’s an incredible opportunity for meaningful connection. Think how powerful it might have been for Elizabeth to hear, “You had such courage to apply for that promotion and even more courage to be honest about how much you wanted it. I’m so proud to be your daughter/son/mentor/friend/parent.”

There is research that shows that one way to minimize disappointment is to lower our expectations. True, optimism can sometimes lead to increased disappointment, and I believe these findings are accurate, but there is a middle path—a way to maintain expectations and stay optimistic—that requires more courage and vulnerability: Examine and express our expectations. There are too many people in the world today who decide to live disappointed rather than risk feeling disappointment. This can take the shape of numbing, foreboding joy, being cynical or critical, or just never really fully engaging. Sometimes, when I’m in one of those moods where I just want to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed—and there were many of those days during quarantine—I promise myself that I’m going to get less excited about things so I feel less disappointed. Then I always remember this interview I did with a man early on in my research. He was in his sixties, and I’ll never forget how he looked at me when he said: I used to think the best way to go through life was to expect the worst. That way, if it happened, you were prepared, and if it didn’t happen, you were pleasantly surprised. Then I was in a car accident and my wife was killed. Needless to say, expecting the worst didn’t prepare me at all. And worse, I still grieve for all of those wonderful moments we shared and that I didn’t fully enjoy. My commitment to her is to fully enjoy every moment now. I just wish she was here now that ...

As I reference in Rising Strong, I think one of the most powerful lines about regret comes from George Saunders’s 2013 commencement address at Syracuse University. Saunders talked about how when he was a child, a young girl was teased at his school and, although he didn’t tease her and even defended her a little, he still thought about it. He said: So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it: What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded…sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

The idea that regret is a fair but tough teacher can really piss people off. “No regrets” has become synonymous with daring and adventure, but I disagree. The idea of “no regrets” doesn’t mean living with courage, it means living without reflection.

The key here is desirable difficulty. The same way you feel a muscle ‘burn’ when it’s being strengthened, the brain needs to feel some discomfort when it’s learning. Your mind might hurt for a while—but that’s a good thing.” Comfortable learning environments rarely lead to deep learning.

That makes sense. The uncertainty feels like self-awareness to me.

When someone tells me, “Well, I’m not sure what I think about that policy. I used to be a fierce proponent of it, but I’m learning more and I’m not as sure as I used to be”—my first thought isn’t What a flip-flopper! My first thought is normally Wow. That’s rare. What are you learning? I’m curious. Again, it’s counterintuitive, but acknowledging uncertainty is a function of grounded confidence, and it feels like humility to me.

After reading the research on amusement, I started thinking about how people say “I did not find that amusing,” and why it’s sometimes said in a judgmental voice. I don’t have any data to support this supposition, but I wonder if what we’re saying is “That unexpected thing that you did or said that was supposed to be funny was not funny.” It’s almost like You failed at your attempt to be funny. That was neither playful nor pleasurable.

The level of divisiveness, uncertainty, and anxiety in the world today leads a lot of us to struggle with rumination, which Garrido explains is an “involuntary focus on negative and pessimistic thoughts.” It’s important to note that she also differentiates rumination from reflection, which is “highly adaptive and psychologically healthy.” Rumination is also different from worry. According to researchers, worry is focused on the future, while rumination focuses on the past or on things about ourselves that we’re stuck on. Researchers believe that rumination is a strong predictor of depression, makes us more likely to pay attention to negative things, and zaps our motivation to do things that would improve how we feel.

Paradox is not an emotion. Much like cognitive dissonance, it starts with thinking but brings in emotion as we start to feel the tension and pull of different ideas. In the case of paradox, our brain wants to solve the puzzle. However, paradoxes can’t be fully resolved using rationality and logic—we need to allow the seeming contradictions to coexist in order to gain deeper understanding. In this way, paradoxes force us to think in expansive ways and lean into vulnerability.

“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”

Both irony and sarcasm are easily misunderstood, especially when you’re talking to someone you don’t know well, when there’s already some heightened emotion in the exchange, or when you’re emailing or texting. As explained in an overview of neurological findings related to irony and sarcasm, “researchers suggest that the successful comprehension of irony depends on the perceiver’s ability to infer other people’s mental states, thoughts, and feelings.” Which is exceptionally difficult over text and email.

I was raised in a family where sarcasm was confused with intellectual ability and craft. When I was a kid, there were many instances when teasing and sarcasm were too hurtful or went too far or went on for too long. I remember reading when I was pregnant with Ellen that the word “sarcasm” comes from a Greek word meaning “to tear flesh.” We didn’t do it perfectly, but Steve and I set an intention to watch our use of sarcasm around and with the kids. It can go wrong too quickly and often ends up in shame and tears.

I asked him why he thinks it works, and we agreed that we’re very careful and don’t use sarcasm and irony to express emotions and thoughts that we’re afraid to talk about. We have plenty of hard conversations, and we’re diligent about not weaponizing words. Sarcasm and irony are reserved for playfulness only.

I think that’s the biggest watch-out with irony and sarcasm: Are you dressing something up in humor that actually requires clarity and honesty?

But hope is not what most of us think it is. It’s not a warm, fuzzy emotion that fills us with a sense of possibility. Hope is a way of thinking—a cognitive process. Yes, emotions play a role, but hope is made up of what researcher C. R. Snyder called a “trilogy of goals, pathways, and agency.” We experience hope when: We have the ability to set realistic goals (I know where I want to go). We are able to figure out how to achieve those goals, including the ability to stay flexible and develop alternative pathways (I know how to get there, I’m persistent, and I can tolerate disappointment and try new paths again and again). We have agency—we believe in ourselves (I can do this!).

“The heart of compassion is really acceptance. The better we are at accepting ourselves and others, the more compassionate we become. Well, it’s difficult to accept people when they are hurting us or taking advantage of us or walking all over us. This research has taught me that if we really want to practice compassion, we have to start by setting boundaries and holding people accountable for their behavior.”

The best definition of boundaries still comes from my friend Kelly Rae Roberts. Kelly Rae was an oncology social worker who followed her dreams and became a prolific, globally recognized artist. After experiences with some of her art students copying her work and selling it, she addressed her art community with a very straightforward blog post on “What’s OK and What’s Not OK” in terms of using her images. For example, it’s okay to be inspired by her work, but not okay to copy it and sell it. This is a simple but profound way to set boundaries. As we say in our organization, Clear is kind. Unclear is unkind. Too often we forget about the “what is okay” part, and that leads to unnecessary disconnection. When people set a boundary with us, we can feel that they’re denying us our right to our thinking and feeling. When we explain up front what’s okay, we move the focus to where it belongs: This expression of your feelings or thinking is the problem. It’s okay to be pissed. It’s not okay to raise your voice and pound on the table. It’s okay to change your mind. It’s not okay to assume that I’m okay with the changes without talking to me. It’s okay to want to be able to do the things your friends are allowed to do. I totally get that. What’s not okay is breaking our rules to do them. It’s okay to disagree with me, but it’s not okay to ridicule my ideas and beliefs.

“Science is not the truth. Science is finding the truth. When science changes its opinion, it didn’t lie to you. It learned more.”

Connection, along with love and belonging (two expressions of connection), is why we are here, and it is what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. Shame is the fear of disconnection—it’s the fear that something we’ve done or failed to do, an ideal that we’ve not lived up to, or a goal that we’ve not accomplished makes us unworthy of connection. I’m unlovable. I don’t belong.

Self-kindness vs. self-judgment: “Self-compassion entails being warm and understanding toward ourselves when we suffer, fail, or feel inadequate, rather than ignoring our pain or flagellating ourselves with self-criticism. Self-compassionate people recognize that being imperfect, failing, and experiencing life difficulties [are] inevitable, so they tend to be gentle with themselves when confronted with painful experiences rather than getting angry when life falls short of set ideals.” Common humanity vs. isolation: “Self-compassion involves recognizing that suffering and personal inadequacy is part of the shared human experience—something that we all go through rather than being something that happens to ‘me’ alone.”

I highly recommend that you take her self-compassion inventory at www.self-compassion.org.

Shame isn’t the cure, it’s the cause. Don’t let what looks like a bloated ego and narcissism fool you into thinking there’s a lack of shame. Shame and fear are almost always driving that unethical behavior. We’re now seeing that shame often fuels narcissistic behavior. In fact, I define narcissism as the shame-based fear of being ordinary.

Shame is the birthplace of perfectionism. Perfectionism is not striving to be our best or working toward excellence. Healthy striving is internally driven. Perfectionism is externally driven by a simple but potentially all-consuming question: What will people think?

It may seem counterintuitive, but one of the biggest barriers to working toward mastery is perfectionism. In our leadership research, we’ve learned that achieving mastery requires curiosity and viewing mistakes and failures as opportunities for learning. Perfectionism kills curiosity by telling us that we have to know everything or we risk looking “less than.” Perfectionism tells us that our mistakes and failures are personal defects, so we either avoid trying new things or we barely recover every time we inevitably fall short.