Tallulah grew up knowing that strength ran deep in her family — strength born from survival. Her grandmother used to say, “We are still here, baby. That means something.” As a child, Tallulah didn’t fully understand what those words meant. She just knew her grandmother’s voice was steady, even when her hands trembled ever so slightly.
It wasn’t until Tallulah reached her late twenties that the weight of her family’s history fully settled onto her shoulders.
She began to feel a heaviness she couldn’t explain — a sadness that wasn’t tied to anything happening in her day-to-day life. She had a home she loved, a job she cared about, and friends who supported her. But inside, something felt cracked and aching.
It was during a cultural gathering that a tribal elder explained something that Tallulah had always felt but never had language for:
“Trauma doesn’t disappear. When it’s not healed, it gets passed on.”
Suddenly, Tallulah understood why she carried grief that wasn’t hers. Her ancestors had survived forced relocation, cultural erasure, and the loss of their children to boarding schools. Their pain had been absorbed into the family tree, its roots deep and tangled. Tallulah realized she was living with the echoes of wounds inflicted long before she was born.
For the first time, she allowed herself to name it: generational trauma.
At first, the realization overwhelmed her. She struggled with anxiety, moments of emotional numbness, and a constant feeling that she had to be strong, even when she was breaking inside. But instead of hiding from the pain, Tallulah made a choice:
She would become the generation that healed.
She started attending talking circles at her community center. She met other Indigenous young adults who were also carrying the stories and scars of their ancestors. She talked to elders who helped her reconnect with cultural practices her family had been encouraged — or forced — to let go of generations earlier. She learned traditional songs. She returned to the land of her people and let the earth beneath her feet remind her that she belonged to something ancient and alive.
Through therapy, ceremony, and community, Tallulah began reclaiming parts of herself she didn’t realize she had lost.
Healing didn’t come quickly — and it didn’t come all at once. Some days, she still feels the pressure of the past pressing into her ribs. But now she faces it with open hands instead of a guarded heart.
“I am my ancestors’ hope,” she reminds herself. “And I am allowed to heal.”
Tallulah carries her history with pride now, not as a burden but as a testament to survival. She honors her ancestors by taking care of herself, by breaking cycles of silence, and by choosing to heal in ways they never had the chance to.
She still hears her grandmother’s voice sometimes — soft but steady in her mind:
“We are still here, baby. That means something.”
