The Stories We Inherit

I walked into the room like I belonged.

I wore clothes that signaled professionalism and competence. I spoke with a voice that carried authority. I moved with the kind of ease that only comes from years of studying the invisible rules of places I had come to occupy, rooms my family never had access to. In college, I was often the only brown face in a sea of white students, and I quickly learned the unspoken codes of the classroom. In hospital department meetings, I recognized how clinical language masked power dynamics, so I chose my words carefully, knowing I had to be exceptional just to be heard. And in professional associations, I learned to navigate the room with confidence, precision, and restraint.

And still, as I scanned the space – predominantly white, full of unspoken norms I hadn’t grown up with – I realized how fluent I had become in a language I was never taught. I had learned to read the room, pick up cues quickly, decipher what was expected, and adapt. Despite this fluency, I still felt the weight of something pressing against my chest. It wasn’t doubt or fear. It was the weight of inheritance, generations of stories, oppression, struggles, and silence.

In these moments, I couldn’t help but think about where I come from, about my family.

My people were laborers. Farmers. Sheepherders. Builders. Factory workers. People who endured far more than they ever spoke aloud, because speaking of the struggle could feel like a betrayal. As if giving voice to the pain somehow dishonored the pride that came from surviving it. Their strength and success were measured by how much they could carry and how long they could survive. They couldn’t imagine being in my world. My people didn’t go to college or sit in conference rooms. They didn’t speak in spaces or navigate institutions that required them to filter their voices, to speak not with truth, but with restraint. They never had to learn how to sound credible to people who questioned their intelligence, or how to code their words to avoid being misunderstood or out of place.

They never stood in rooms like the ones I now find myself in. And maybe, from the outside, it looked like I had made it.

I believe they were proud of me. Proud that I had crossed into places we were never meant to occupy. That I had used what I’d been given – and what I had to fight for – to create a different kind of life. And yet, I also suspect a different truth lingered beneath the surface, something harder to name. Maybe they saw the way I spoke and thought I sounded “too white.” Maybe the way I dressed or carried myself felt like a rejection of where I came from. Maybe my education, my confidence, the fact that I walked into rooms they never entered, looked less like success and more like betrayal.

So even though I stood proud and tall, even though I looked like I knew what I was doing, part of me still felt like I was breaking the rules. Not just their rules, the rules of the room, but our rules, the ones passed down in silence from generation to generation. The ones written in struggle and pain.

I felt like I was straddling two worlds.

One foot in a professional space that was never designed with people like me in mind. The other foot still tethered to the stories I’d inherited, stories of survival, sacrifice, and silence. Stories that had kept my family alive. Stories that shaped who I thought I needed to be to stay safe, to succeed, to belong.

And suddenly, I realized that this wasn’t just my story.
This was our story.

It didn’t start with me.

It was a story I had inherited.

The Difference Between What’s Yours and What You Carry

Most of us are aware of the stories we’ve created through personal experience – what happened in childhood, what we learned in school, what truths our families have shown us, and who we had to become to navigate our world. These are our personal stories – the ones we’ve lived.

But underneath our personal stories, there are older stories. Stories absorbed through generational transmission. Stories shaped by culture, lineage, colonization, migration, and systemic oppression. Stories whispered over generations. Passed down not always through words, but through survival patterns, silence, and emotional muscle memory.

Some were spoken aloud: “We don’t talk about those things,” “Keep your head down,” “Don’t let them see you struggle.”

Others weren’t said at all, but live in your nervous system as much as in your memory. The quickening of your pulse when someone questions your intelligence. The tightness in your chest when you begin to speak. The instinct to apologize even if you’ve done nothing wrong. The guilt that creeps in when you succeed and leave others behind. The discomfort you feel when taking a break, because somewhere deep inside, rest feels like laziness, and ease feels like betrayal.

Maybe you believe that struggle is proof of character, and that wanting more is selfish, or shameful, or white. You may feel them as your own – but they were shaped by conditions your ancestors survived, patterns your family repeated, and messages your culture normalized long before you had language for them.

When Survival Becomes Identity

Ancestral stories often begin in survival.

Maybe your people learned to work twice as hard for half as much, so you grew up inheriting the belief that rest is not only lazy, but dangerous, that ease is weak and invites punishment, and exhaustion is proof of worth. Maybe they learned not to trust outsiders, so you find yourself scanning and withholding in spaces that feel unfamiliar. Maybe they equated success with separation and selfishness, or even betrayal, because those who “made it” often had to leave others behind. So now, every time you reach a new level of achievement, a part of you feels like guilty and like a traitor.

The struggle and pain weren’t always spoken, but were passed down in glances that warned you not to be too loud and proud, in the silence around certain experiences and memories, in the expectations that shaped your role in the family and in your community.

And somewhere along the way, these strategies stopped being what you did to survive and became who you thought you were. You stopped seeing them as context and started seeing them as character. You weren’t just someone who worked hard; you were someone who had to. You weren’t just someone who avoided conflict; you believed you were bad at it. You weren’t just carrying a story, you became the story.

That’s what it means when survival becomes identity.

And once that happens, it doesn't just shape how you see the world, it defines how you move through it and who you believe you are – not as a liberated self, but as a self shaped by what was once required to stay alive.

Systems Don’t Just Oppress – They Shape the Story

When we walk into rooms that weren’t built for us, predominantly white, cisgender male, or elite institutions, we are often doing so without a cultural roadmap. The system doesn’t reflect us and it doesn’t care where we come from. So, we learn to fill in the gaps. And when the system is deaf to who we are, the ego steps in to make meaning.

It creates stories to help us survive and it tells us things like: “I have to prove I belong,” or “If I speak up, there will be negative consequences,” or “If I fail, I confirm every stereotype.” These are protective responses to real threats, passed down through generations and reinforced by systems that still reward assimilation, silence, and erasure.

Even when you understand what’s happening, your body may still brace for impact, not because you’re overreacting, but because, once upon a time, speaking too boldly, standing too proudly or failing publicly was dangerous.

Cultural Body Memory Is Real

Your nervous system doesn’t just remember your experiences. It holds the imprints of those who came before you.

Maybe that tightening in your throat when you try to speak in a meeting isn’t about this meeting at all. Maybe it’s the echo of your grandmother, who was taught not to raise her voice. Perhaps your discomfort with praise or recognition isn’t because you lack confidence, but because your family valued humility, self-sacrifice, and staying out of the spotlight.

They mean your body is wise, not weak. They show your lineage is alive in you. But if left unexamined, they can keep you living in reaction rather than creation.

The Burden of Being the First

If you’re the first in your family or community to break into new spaces, you’re carrying the story of generations. You are the culmination of their hopes and dreams, and sometimes, the embodiment of their fears.

You carry the pressure to succeed for everyone. You feel the weight of representation, knowing that when you walk into the room, you’re representing yourself your culture, your people, your community. And still, you often carry that weight alone.

Being the first can feel exhilarating and excruciating, empowering and isolating, liberating and guilt-ridden – all at the same time. This is the paradox of trailblazing. You’re forging a new path, while still haunted by the map you inherited.

Ancestral Story Archaeology: A Practice

You don’t have to reject your ancestors to reclaim your story. In fact, the most powerful healing happens when you honor their survival while choosing your own liberation.

Here’s a practice to begin:

1. Ask yourself: Is this mine?

When a strong emotional reaction arises – guilt, fear, shame – pause. Ask: “Is this my truth, or is this something I inherited?” You might be surprised how often the voice in your head is someone else’s.

2. Trace it back.

Where did this belief come from? Was it modeled in your family? Reinforced by your culture? Rooted in oppression? Give yourself space to explore the origin story – not to blame, but to understand. 

3. Hold it with reverence.

Every inherited story was once a survival tool. Say: “Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for protecting those who came before me.” Then ask: “Does this still serve me now?”

4. Choose differently.

From that awareness, choose the story you want to live into. One that honors your lineage, but no longer limits your life.

We See It Before We Shift It

Recognition is the first step, not the destination. You can’t change what you can’t see.

This month, we learned to see clearly – to separate what is ours from what we carry.
Next month, we learn how to own our narrative.
And in the final month, we learn how to consciously create the life, leadership, and legacy we are here to live.