I saw a post on social media that said “It ran in the family until it ran into me.” I thought about it as I was out running. It was one of those nice running days where the weather was perfect and I was feeling good and strong.

I thought about the extraordinary trailblazing women who have come before me. They were landowners, homeowners, business owners, divorcees and so much more -- all in times when it was difficult to be any of those things as Native/Chicana women.  

I have always admired the intelligence, strength, perseverance, independence and take-no-shit attitude of those women. So I thought, “they did it all!”  Then it hit me.

I was accompanying a friend to find a pair of jeans (many of us are wise enough to know this is a feat that requires support). I began to tell her how the words of another person made me mad! There it was, my go to response. I know this feeling well. It rises up from my belly to my chest and out my mouth comes the monologue. Oh, the monologue my dad taught me well! I remember him telling me how the pen is mightier than the sword and I also remember the torturous lectures which never allowed for a two-way discussion. This brilliant man could speak like few I’ve seen in my life. It holds true today. (I have a fond memory of him negotiating chicken prices with ferocity while winking and smiling at me, and it solidified the power of words).

Everything I brought forward from the women in my life in combination with my dad’s lessons meant no one could ever hurt me. I have been called intimidating throughout my life. I could go into a whole bit about how I have had to be this person to ensure my voice was heard or I had a seat at the table, but that is for another day.

As I began the monologue I went beyond the anger because my Masters of Counseling program taught me “anger is a secondary emotion.” (I had to wrestle with that one. They weren’t wrong.) I allowed myself to talk about what hurt me. This is something I’ve consciously worked toward. Then I took it a step further and let myself cry and really truly feel and know what hurt me.  Up until the past few years I took pride in saying I had only cried a handful of times in my life. I even had a good laugh with jean girl about it.  She said “every time you say “I’ve only cried five times in my life” I chuckle and am curious--because it’s not who I know.” She has created a level of safety I’ve never known.  

Two things ran in the family until it ran into me. I now allow myself to express and share vulnerability. I think I’ve also made it safe for others in my family. Along that vein, becoming a counselor made it possible but also normalized mental health care in my family.  When I think of the trauma my grandmother alone endured, it has left me speechless. 

Strength can become a weakness when it prevents us from truly allowing ourselves to feel. This in turn doesn’t allow us to connect with others. That connection is why we are here. If intergenerational trauma is real, I hope I am healing for my family.