By Michael Kelman Portney

Generational trauma is the ultimate family heirloom: you didn’t ask for it, you can’t sell it on eBay, and yet here you are, holding a metaphorical vase of shattered self-esteem and unresolved issues. Congratulations, you’re the newest contestant in Who Wants to Be an Emotional Hoarder?

Let’s talk narcissism—because if we don’t, your mother will. And she’ll remind you that her mother was worse, so you should just be grateful. Narcissism is like a family recipe passed down with increasing inaccuracy: Grandma was a “perfectionist,” Mom became a “diva,” and now you’re sitting here as the “self-doubt casserole,” trying to piece together why being yourself feels like a crime. It’s not just narcissism; it’s a full charcuterie board of mental illnesses, neatly wrapped in denial and served at every holiday dinner.

Here’s the kicker: no one ever thinks they’re part of the problem. Your dad? Oh, he’s just “particular.” Your uncle? He’s “got quirks.” And your mom? She’s “a strong woman who knows what she wants” (and what she wants is for you to shut up and do what she says). Meanwhile, you’re reading The Body Keeps the Score like it’s a murder mystery, only to realize the call is coming from inside the house.

Generational trauma doesn’t just appear. No, it’s a team sport. Picture your ancestors standing in a circle, playing hot potato with their unresolved pain. Each generation says, “Well, I can’t fix this, but I sure as hell can pass it on,” and you’re left holding a scalding ball of anxiety and self-loathing. The family crest might as well be a therapist holding a "Help Wanted" sign.

And let’s not forget about the other coping mechanisms. Every family’s got one relative who tries to "break the cycle" with yoga and kombucha, only to break down crying in a Trader Joe’s parking lot because they remembered Thanksgiving is next week. Then there’s the cousin who “did their own research” on YouTube and now believes all mental illness is caused by fluoride. Progress, people. Progress.

The real tragedy (or comedy, depending on how much wine you’ve had) is that everyone thinks they’re the hero of the story. Your parents? Oh, they did their best. Their parents? They didn’t know any better. And now it’s your turn, staring at your own kids like, “How do I NOT screw you up?” Spoiler: you will. But hey, at least you’re aware of it, which makes you better than some people. Looking at you, Grandma.

Generational trauma isn’t going anywhere, folks. It’s like the worst family reunion you can’t leave, where every problem gets repackaged, rebranded, and thrown into the next suitcase of life. But here’s the twist: you can unpack it. You can throw out the metaphorical vase, stop playing emotional hot potato, and, God forbid, talk about your feelings. Will it fix everything? No. But it’s a start.

And if all else fails, there’s always therapy. Or ketamine. Or a really good blog to remind you that you’re not alone in this three-ring circus of inherited chaos.

Cheers to breaking cycles, or at least learning how to juggle them.