27/08/2025
I was afraid of the water. Not a rational fear, but a primal, knee-buckling, gut-churning terror that defied all logic.
It began in childhood. While other kids splashed in the shallow end, I would cling to the ladder, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My parents called it a phase. Swim instructors called me a "difficult case." I called it my personal curse.
The fear dictated my life. I avoided beach trips, turned down lakehouse invitations, and felt a wave of nausea every time I passed a public pool. In my thirties, determined to conquer it, I hired a specialized therapist. We did exposure therapy, breathing exercises, everything. I could eventually wade in up to my knees, but the deep end remained a liquid abyss, a nightmare made real.
The breaking point came on a vacation with my fiancé. We were on a beautiful boat tour. He, wanting a photo, leaned back playfully against the railing. It gave way.
He didn't fall. He caught himself instantly, laughing it off. But in that split second, my body reacted with a terror that was utterly disproportionate. I didn't just get startled. I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that ripped from a place I didn't know existed. I collapsed onto the deck, sobbing uncontrollably, consumed by a grief and fear so vast it felt ancient. It felt like it belonged to someone else.
My fiancé held me, confused and worried. "It's okay," he kept saying. "I'm right here. I'm safe." But I couldn't be consoled. The terror wasn't about him. It was about something else entirely.
A few weeks later, at a family gathering, I was retelling the story as a funny "can you believe I lost it like that?" anecdote. My great-aunt, a woman in her nineties with eyes that had seen everything, went very still.
"You know," she said softly, her voice cutting through the laughter. "That reminds me of your great-grandfather, Leo. You never met him."
She told us a story I had never heard. My great-grandfather Leo had emigrated from Italy as a young man. The ship he was on, overcrowded and poorly maintained, hit a storm. A section of the railing on the lower deck broke away. Several people were washed overboard, including Leo's younger brother, Marco. They never recovered the body.
Leo never went on a boat again. He never even learned to swim. He developed a fear of deep water so profound he would get dizzy looking at pictures of the ocean. He carried the guilt of surviving until the day he died.
He died years before I was born.
I sat there, the air sucked from my lungs. My fear. My terror. The broken railing. It wasn't mine. I had inherited it.
I found Mark Wolynn's book, "It Didn't Start with You," that very night. I didn't just read it; I devoured it, tears streaming down my face as a lifetime of unexplained anxieties and patterns suddenly snapped into devastating, clear focus.
Here are the exceptional lessons that taught me how to give back a pain that was never mine to carry.
The Exceptional Lessons
1. The Trauma Doesn't Have to Be Your Own to Be Your Pain.
Wolynn's core thesis is that traumatic experiences can be passed down through generations epigenetically—through the very expression of our genes—and psychologically, through unconscious family loyalties and silenced stories. The fears, anxieties, phobias, and even relationship patterns that seem to have no root in your own life may not be yours. They may be an unspoken inheritance, a ghost of a story you were never told, but that your body remembers. My terror of water wasn't a personal failing; it was a memory my nervous system had held for my great-grandfather.
2. The Core Language Approach: Your Words and Fears Hold the Key to the Past.
Wolynn introduces a powerful tool called the Core Language Approach. The specific words we use to describe our deepest fears often point directly to the original, unresolved trauma. My specific, intense fear wasn't just "water"; it was the "broken railing" and the terror of "someone being washed away." These were not my words; they were the literal, factual details of my great-grandfather's trauma. Our deepest anxieties often speak in the precise language of a past family event.
3. Unconscious Loyalty: We Often Unknowingly Repeat or Enact Family Trauma.
We can be unconsciously loyal to our ancestors, feeling compelled to carry their pain, repeat their failures, or even die at the same age they did, as a way of honoring them or "completing" their story. This is why we often find ourselves stuck in patterns we can't explain. I wasn't just afraid of water; I was, in a way, staying loyal to Leo's trauma. I was keeping his fear alive. Understanding this breaks the trance. We can choose to honor our ancestors by living fully, not by suffering their unfinished pain.
4. Acknowledgment, Not Blame: The Path to Healing is Returning the Story to Its Rightful Owner.
This work is not about blaming our parents or grandparents. They were likely carrying their own inherited burdens, doing the best they could with the tools they had. The healing comes from compassionately acknowledging the full story. It is about saying, "I see this pain. I honor this story. But this is not my story to carry." It is a process of gently returning the emotional baggage to its rightful owner, freeing you to live your own life, not a continuation of theirs.
5. Ending the Cycle is the Ultimate Act of Love for Future Generations.
By doing this work, you are not just healing yourself. You are fundamentally altering the genetic and psychological trajectory of your lineage. You are stopping a cycle of pain in its tracks, ensuring that your children, and their children, will not have to carry the same ghosts. You are turning a legacy of trauma into a legacy of resilience. My healing wasn't just for me; it was a gift to my future family. It was my promise that the fear would end with me.
The Return
I didn't just read the book; I did the work. I found photographs of my great-grandfather Leo. I learned about his brother Marco. I spoke their names out loud.
I went to a quiet lake. I sat on the dock and I didn't try to fight the fear. Instead, I spoke to it. I said, "I feel your terror, Leo. I feel your grief for Marco. It was a horrible, tragic thing that happened. I am so sorry. I acknowledge your pain. But I am your great-granddaughter. This is not my pain to carry. I am giving it back to you now, with love. I choose to be free."
I didn't jump in the water that day. But the icy fist around my heart began to loosen.
Weeks later, I went back. I walked in up to my waist. Then my chest. And then, for the first time in my entire life, I took a breath, leaned forward, and swam.
Leo never went on a boat again. He never even learned to swim. He developed a fear of deep water so profound that he would get dizzy looking at pictures of the ocean. He carried the guilt of surviving until the day he died. so sorry. I acknowledge your pain. But I am your great-granddaughter. This is not my pain to carry. I am giving it back to you now, with love. I choose to be free."
FREE AUDIOBOOK: https://amzn.to/4p0aM9i
You can also get the book and Kindle by using the same link.