What We Carry Forward

Choosing What to Pass On From Our Families, Cultures, and Histories

This time of year often brings us back into close contact with family —
our families of origin, our in-laws, our histories.

And for many parents, that closeness activates a familiar reflex.

Our nervous systems scan for what didn’t feel good.
What hurt.
What we don’t want to repeat.

This makes sense.

Our brains are shaped by survival. We are wired to learn from cues of danger … from moments of disconnection, shame, fear, or loss of dignity. Especially if those moments were repeated. Especially if we were small.

So when we talk about parenting, healing, or “breaking cycles,” the focus often lands on:

• what we didn’t receive

• what felt harmful

• what we are determined to do differently

That work matters deeply.

And… it isn’t the whole story.

A Wider Lens: Trauma Is Not Only Personal

The more I read about adverse experiences in childhood, the deeper I see that trauma is not just individual or relational — it is also intergenerational, systemic, cultural, and institutional.

Which means that what shaped us wasn’t only our parents’ choices. It was:

• the political system we lived under

• the culture and collective values that surrounded us

• the economic realities of our families

• the rhythms of daily life

• the land, the community, the spiritual frameworks that held us

When we widen the lens like this, something softens.

We can begin to ask not only:

What do I want to heal or interrupt?

but also:

What do I want to carry forward?

Remembering What Nourished Me

I was born in communist Romania.

My earliest years were spent with my grandparents in the countryside. And when I look back now — through a somatic, relational lens — I can feel how deeply those years shaped me.

My grandmother embodied compassion. She was generous, humble, and kind. People came to her for support and advice. She cared for animals — chickens, sheep, pigs, dogs, cats — with reverence and tenderness. Each life mattered.

Her faith was not loud or performative.
It was lived.

She was deeply connected to God, to the land, to the seasons, to rhythm.
In her presence, I felt safe. Seen. Handled with care. She was my secure base. From her, I carry forward:

• embodied compassion

• generosity

• listening

• reverence for life

• spiritual grounding

• trust in natural rhythm rather than urgency

Enough, Community, and Making Do

Later, living with my parents under communism—until the Revolution brought democracy when I was eight—life was materially limited.

We stood in line for bread.
Milk was rationed.
Stores were often empty.

And yet — in my body memory — I don’t remember lack. I remember enough.

We made do with what we had.
We shared.
We helped one another.
We celebrated together.
We trusted that we would be okay.

There was community. Friendship. Religious ceremonies. Picnics. Rest. From that time, I carry forward:

• resourcefulness

• tolerance for “less”

• gratitude without panic

• trust that constant abundance is not required for safety

Independence Held by Trust

As a young child, I walked to school alone — about thirty minutes each way.
By first and second grade, I had a key to the house.

I was trusted.

Trusted to walk.
Trusted to come home.
Trusted to be alone for a while.

That independence mattered. But what mattered just as much was the relational safety underneath it. My nervous system learned:

You are capable. And you are believed in.

Play, Movement, and Joy

My dad brought playfulness into my life.

Dancing.
Playing cards and games together.
Watching soccer.
Taking me out to ice-skate on the frozen lake. Sports, movement, laughter — shared joy. From him, I carry forward:

• play

• physical vitality

• joy in shared experiences

• connection through doing things together

Protection, Repair, and Welcomed Tears

My mom’s strength showed up differently.

She was determined to keep me safe — especially when things were not going well in the house. She protected me in the ways she could.

My tears were welcome.
Grief was allowed.
Crying was accepted.

And later, when I was a teenager, something powerful happened: She apologized when she was unskillful. She named it. She repaired.

That mattered more than perfection ever could.

She was available to me at different developmental stages, in the ways I needed. I knew she would always be there. From her, I carry forward:

• emotional availability

• repair over perfection

• protection without control

• steadiness and reliability

She was also deeply respectful of my adult life. She did not interfere in my marriage. She listened neutrally, compassionately, without taking sides. She trusted me to live my life.

That respect — that non-intrusion — was a form of love.

A Childhood Lived Outside

We played outside — a lot.

There was a small window of TV time during communism—half an hour of cartoons in the early evening. We all came inside to watch, and when it ended, we went right back out to play.

We knocked on friends’ doors.
Spoke to their parents.
Asked if they could come out to play.

We played hide and seek, school, family, pretend games. We ate in the park. On Sundays, there was rest. Real rest. My mom would sit, read, watch a movie. Sunday was for slowing down.

After communism ended, television became more available—more channels, more programming for children. And still, because our nervous systems were shaped by time outdoors, we continued to seek it. Being outside felt regulating, familiar, alive.
Today, across different countries and cultures, I notice how modern life has gently shifted children indoors—not because parents don’t care, but because systems, streets, schedules, and safety have changed.

That feels like a loss. From that childhood, I carry forward:

• unstructured play

• community trust

• reverence for rest

• slowness without guilt

Care as Love

There were small, steady acts of care:

• foot and face massages

• storytelling until I fell asleep

• reading books together

• tea when you’re sick

• healthy food

• walking everywhere

• listening to birds

• noticing flowers and trees

• growing plants in the house

• cleaning the home to create a nurturing environment

• hugs

• “I love you” spoken aloud

These weren’t dramatic. They were regulating. They taught my nervous system what care feels like.

Discernment, Too

Not everything fits neatly.

I was also taught to see the goodness in people — even after they hurt us. And while compassion matters deeply, I now hold this with more nuance.

Seeing goodness should never come at the cost of protecting the part of us that was hurt.

That discernment, too, is something I want to pass on.

An Invitation for This Season

As you spend time with family — or reflect on family from a distance — I invite you to ask:

• What values shaped me in ways I want to continue?

• What rhythms regulated my nervous system as a child?

• What forms of care, play, trust, or repair still live in my body?

• What do I want my children to feel, not just learn?

Healing is not only about releasing what hurt. It is also about choosing, with intention, what we carry forward. And sometimes, when we slow down enough to notice, we realize:

There was more goodness than we remembered.

And it lives on — through us.

This reflection is part of an ongoing conversation about healing, repair, and carrying goodness forward. Stay connected if it resonates.

This reflection is also part of the same inquiry I hold in Befriend Anger: meeting our protective emotions with respect, so we can pass on more than just survival.