There were often times where I used to think I was just “emotional” or “too sensitive.” But the truth was deeper, heavier, and older than me.
You see, what I carried wasn’t just my own pain. It was my mother’s. And it was her mother’s. This pain ran through generations like a river, silent, powerful, and destructive.
I didn’t know it had a name until I was grown. A name I would become all too familiar with…generational trauma.
No, I’m not a therapist and I am not a scholar. Simply, I'm just a woman who finally decided to stop pretending she was okay.
The First Time I Saw the Pattern
My healing journey didn’t begin with a self-help book or a wellness retreat. It began with my daughter.
She was only five when I caught myself yelling at her the same way my mother used to yell at me, loud, sharp, unpredictable. She flinched, and something in me completely shattered. I saw fear in her eyes, and it felt too familiar. It was the same fear I experienced and knew all too well. And in that very moment, I realized that I had become what had hurt me.
I sat on the bathroom floor after she went to bed, knees to my chest, I began crying harder than I had in years. Not for me, but I was crying for the little girl I used to be, the one who had no idea that love didn’t have to hurt.
That was the first crack in the generational curse.
Trauma Doesn’t Always Look Like Abuse
I used to believe trauma had to be something dramatic, something painful like war, violence, poverty. The more I learned about the true meaning of trauma, the more I understood.
I learned that trauma could be quiet. It could be the absence of gentleness. It could be silence where there should have been comfort. It could be having your emotions dismissed every time you cry or question something.
Sadly, my mother grew up in survival mode. So did her mother. They didn’t have a safe space to heal or reflect. Their sole focus was on staying alive, holding the family together, working, and being strong. But, that strength came at the cost of softness. And softness is what I craved.
Instead of learning how to process emotions, I learned how to suppress them. I learned to be small in order to avoid being a burden. I learned to earn love by performing instead of just existing.
These lessons weren't spoken out loud. They were passed down like heirlooms, wrapped in expectations.
The Shame of Feeling Broken
For years, I felt ashamed for struggling. On the outside, I looked like I had it together: decent job, social media smiles, polite responses. But inside, I was exhausted. I thought something was wrong with me because I couldn’t just get over it.
What I didn’t understand was that I wasn’t just carrying my emotions. I was carrying inherited grief, stories I never lived, but still felt. Pain that had become part of my DNA.
Breaking that cycle meant confronting more than just my past. It meant rewriting a script that had been passed down for generations.
Healing Looks Different for Everyone
My healing didn’t happen overnight. It came in layers: therapy, journaling, breathing through triggers, crying without shame. It meant parenting my child differently, and re-parenting the little girl inside me who never felt safe.
I started talking to my daughter differently. I began apologizing when I messed up. I showed her that emotions are not weakness. I taught her that love can be soft and strong. And most importantly, I allowed myself to believe that I deserved the same.
One of the most powerful things I’ve ever done was whisper to myself:
"This ends with me."
Legacy Isn’t Just What We Leave, It’s What We Heal
I’m still healing. Some days, I still flinch at loud voices. I still overthink. But I no longer carry shame for feeling deeply. I see my triggers as clues, not flaws. And I honor the fact that my healing is a form of resistance.
Generational trauma may run deep, but so does our capacity to rise!
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