The pain of my ancestors is inside me.
By caring for my pain, I care for them.
They who abandoned me.
Who rejected and shunned me.
For what they perceived me to be.
They who gave life to my body.
They who inspired my soul.
They whom I loved.
The one who has passed away without holding her great-grandchild’s hand.
The one who planted the seed of her mistrust.
The ones who hurt and abused them so, breaking their ability to love.
The ones that passed too soon.
My pain is not who I am.
It is what they transmitted to me.
My body is not who I am.
It is what they gave to me.
My mind is not who I am.
That has formed through all life’s encounters.
The silence inside the pain, the soul within the body, the light in the mind.
That is what I am.