The Stories We Inherit from Our Parents

I recently spent time with my mother, who was openly naming her depression. She talked about feeling alone. About not having enough. About how life had been unfair. A loop I’ve heard my whole life. But the truth? She has community. She has friends. She has financial stability. And yet, she can’t feel any of it. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because her nervous system—her brain, her trauma history, the wiring from a childhood of neglect and generational grief—won’t let her feel safe inside what’s already here.

And the thing is, I do the same thing. I know I do. I spiral in the same distortions. I chase what’s missing instead of metabolizing what’s good. Even when it’s right in front of me. It just doesn’t always register. My nervous system keeps bracing for loss and looping in the same grief. My mind keeps searching for what’s wrong. And while my story has its own beat, I’ve inherited the same music of her sadness. This isn’t new information. But being with her was a living reminder.

I don’t want to carry it anymore. I really don’t want that to be my story.

We all carry some story from our parents—who likely carried it from theirs. A rhythm. A template. A certain emotional choreography we learn without knowing we’ve learned it. We internalize their fears, their fixations, their blind spots. The way they talk to themselves. The way they navigate disappointment, intimacy, money, friendship, joy. Even if we vow to be different, we often find ourselves reenacting the very dynamics we swore we’d never repeat.