We Carry More Than Our Names

we carry more than our names.

we inherit the echoes of our mothers’ sorrows, the silent grief of our grandmothers, the whispered fears that lived in the spaces between their words.

we are shaped not only by the arms that held us but by the ghosts of wounds never spoken, wounds that were swallowed whole so the next generation wouldn’t have to taste their bitterness.

but trauma doesn’t die in silence.

it lingers in the marrow, seeps into the spaces between laughter, hides in the way we flinch at love, in the way we hold our breath when the world gets too loud. it is the fear of being too much, yet never enough. the hesitation before reaching for joy, as if happiness must always be bargained for. it is the voice that whispers, don’t trust too deeply, don’t ask for too much.

don’t. let. them. see. you. cry.

we are the children of mothers who didn’t know safety.
the daughters of women who never got to dream.
the sons of men who carried rage like an heirloom.

and yet—we are also the cycle-breakers.

we are the first to lay our hands on the wounds and call them by name.
the first to say, this ends with me.
the first to hold love without trembling.

we choose to release what was never ours to carry.
to unravel the tightly wound fear from our bones.
to breathe where our ancestors held their breath.
to teach our children that they were born whole.

we do not have to pass down the war.
we can give them peace instead.

and that, too, is inheritance.

you are the first in your bloodline to breathe without fear, to love without conditions, to exist without apology.

that is your revolution.

-Soren Kindred