She Was Cherokee

My great-great-great grandmother was Cherokee. I don’t know her name. I wish I did. What I do know, is that before she was forced from her home in the Tennessee hills to walk the Trail of Tears, she did the hardest, bravest thing a woman, a mother, could possibly do—she placed her infant daughter, my great-great grandmother, into the care of a local family, sparing the baby from certain death. I have no idea if my great-great-great grandmother survived the Trail of Tears, but roughly one-fifth of the Cherokee population died during the brutal march west. Inherited trauma, generational trauma, intergenerational trauma—however you choose to phrase it, the meaning has been diluted because of over-saturation on socials. From spiritual narcissists seeking followers, to influencers fishing for sympathy and attention, trauma is trendy. Am I wrong? Maybe I just feel things too deeply. Maybe I’m really taking it all in for the first time in my life, that the blood of my Cherokee ancestors flows through me, and I am in awe. If my three greats grandmother hadn’t had the strength and courage to leave her daughter behind, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve been thinking about her a lot, lately. I stand with her, in her fear, in her grief. I comfort her in her heartbreak. Her greatest sacrifice, made it possible for me to experience unconditional love. And that, friends, is generational healing.  

#generationalhealing #generationaltrauma #cherokeeindian