While reading the latest book by one of my favorite authors, Lieben by Emilia Roig, I came across a quote that deeply moved me and made me not only reflect but also sit down and write this text that is now in front of you.

Emilia says:

“Whoever runs from pain also runs from healing” and also “The healing of pain lies within the pain.”
(p. 60, Lieben, Emilia Roig)

And that got me thinking.

Throughout my childhood, I was “protected” from pain and sadness, even though, given the circumstances, the time, and the place where I grew up, they were all around me.

My parents wanted to shield me, and they largely succeeded in doing so—for which I am endlessly grateful. I never experienced deprivation or the horrors of the wars that raged all around us.

I never felt unsafe or unloved, even though I often heard “Unfortunately, we can’t afford that.” when I wished for a sweet treat or a toy.

I had a happy childhood.

But on the other hand, this overprotection made me incapable of dealing with pain and difficult situations as an adult.

The first major breakdown I experienced was when my grandfather passed away. The next one—one I still haven’t healed from—was when my grandmother passed away. I was very close to both of them, each in their own way. Especially with my grandmother.

Six years without her, and the pain still feels as fresh as on the first day.

I have learned to live with pain and loss—or rather, I have successfully pushed it under the rug because I am strong.

“Successfully”—until it erupts like a volcano and I end up in tears and sobs, triggered by a book, a song, a memory.

The last time I “fell apart from grief” because I missed my grandmother so much was a few weeks ago when I was reading “My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry“ by Fredrik Backman. The book is so beautiful on multiple levels… It talks about the relationship between a grandmother and her granddaughter, loss, the beauty of imagination, and the celebration of diversity. A must-read for everyone!

I held myself together for most of the book, allowing a hidden tear here and there—until one evening, an incredibly emotional scene in the book coincided with a song playing on the radio: “One Man Can Change the World” by Big Sean. In the song, he also talks about his grandmother—how strong she was and how much he misses her—and it ends with her farewell words.
And that was it for me.

I sobbed like a little child, it seemed. So much pain poured out of me that words can hardly describe it. Marko sat beside me, holding me and waiting for it to pass. I am so grateful to him for that. When the storm passed and everything calmed down, I felt lighter.

The next day, over coffee, he cautiously said to me:

“You know, I’ve been thinking… maybe all the pain and sorrow that came out of you last night wasn’t just your own, but rather the generational pain of all the women in your lineage, who had to suppress their needs and feelings for their entire lives.”

Marko at his best, as always.

That made me reflect even more.

The theory of emotions, behaviors, and, most importantly, traumas being passed down from generation to generation is not new or unfamiliar to me. But it’s something entirely different when it happens to you—when you feel it firsthand and channel it.

For far too long, we have been taught to suppress sadness, dissatisfaction, frustration. For far too long, we as women have been pushed aside and not taken seriously. All of this is written somewhere in our DNA.

But maybe I am the one who will break this generational chain and free not only myself and my female ancestors but, most importantly, all the women who will come into this world after me—Sofka, above all.

This realization clearly shook me to the core.

Yes, it hurts, and it will continue to hurt. But I must learn to feel all my feelings.

And in today’s world, that is not easy—not for us women, and certainly not for men either. We have become so intertwined with the roles we play in life that we rarely question them. We learn them from birth—through upbringing, socialization, and, most of all, by modeling behavior.

As much as I would love to believe that the world has changed, I often have to remind myself that, yes, it is changing, but not enough and not fast enough.

Because every time a mother “has to be strong so the child doesn’t see that she is sad, upset, or angry,” every time a father “isn’t allowed to cry, even if he has lost someone very important in his life, because it’s shameful for men to cry,” every time a little boy falls, gets hurt, and starts crying, only to be told, “You’re crying like a little girl,”
we, as a society, are sending the message to the one having a strong emotional reaction:

“No, what you are feeling is not acceptable. And because I feel uncomfortable not knowing how to respond or help you at this moment, the only possible solution is for you to stop feeling what you feel.”

And so, we don’t allow ourselves to feel. Instead, like in the animated movie Inside Out 2, we put our basic emotions in a jar. And if we can lock them away in a hidden safe—so much the better.

But life is a cycle of beautiful and painful events, and even though we are surrounded by the illusion of perfection and only positivity through the media, especially social media, that doesn’t mean painful things won’t happen. The solution is not to pretend they don’t exist and act like machines for the sake of appearances and the illusion of “strength.”

Quite the opposite.

I am convinced that those who have learned to recognize, accept, and release their emotions—allowing themselves to truly feel and experience them—can heal and move forward.

And that is exactly what I hope our children will learn to do. At the very least, we are trying to teach Sofia this. Whether we succeed, only time will tell… But I hope she is on a pretty good path.

Time heals all wounds, that is true—but not in the way we thought: Suppress it, and it will go away.

Time heals wounds faster when they are treated with care.

A simple example: If you break your leg and can’t walk, you can’t just grit your teeth and wait for it to heal. Theoretically, even if you could block the physical pain, once it heals, it will heal incorrectly, and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to run again.

It’s the same with emotions. And it’s time we start taking them seriously because, even though they are not tangible, they are an essential part of us.

I truly feel better—and the proof of that is a dream I had a few nights ago.

Normally, whenever I dreamed of my grandmother, I would wake up deeply unsettled because, in my dreams, she always begged me to help her, and I was unable to save her. I would wake up with a feeling of loss, missing her terribly, and carrying guilt for not being able to help her.

But this time was different. I dreamed of her smiling, calling me “my sunshine”—as she always did—and giving me a sun-shaped necklace. She was happy and radiant. And I woke up in the middle of the night with an epiphany: I should be happy when she visits me in my dreams, because they are the only way I can see her again—not sad because of it.

And that freed me. To the point that I can now write these words without my chin trembling or my eyes welling up.

That doesn’t mean I don’t miss her anymore—on the contrary. But I think I have finally let go.

So yes, Emilia Roig is absolutely right: “If you run from pain, you run from healing.”

Let yourself feel.

Warmly,
S-Mama