Scars? What Scars? (in Our Family Trees)

Minimizing & Discounting Intergenerational Trauma

John Moyer c.2009

The Appeal and Challenge of Family History

Genealogy, the captivating pursuit of tracing our ancestral lines, often begins with a desire to connect with the past—to unearth the stories of those who came before us. We meticulously document births, marriages, and deaths, piecing together the narrative of our family's journey through time. But what happens when that narrative takes a dark turn? How do we address the difficult chapters, the traumas, and the unspoken pains that have shaped our families? Too often, we resort to euphemisms, tiptoeing around difficult histories as if afraid to disturb the ghosts of the past.

But perhaps it would be helpful to disturb them.

The Language of Avoidance

Some genealogists might politely refer to challenging events as “burls” in the family tree—unusual growths that disrupt the smooth flow of a narrative. Others use terms like “irregularities,” “sensitive episodes,” or simply mark events with a vague “unclear circumstances.” Terra incognita. While these terms may seem innocuous and proper, they fail to acknowledge the depth and impact of chronic stress and inherited trauma.

As a psychotherapist, I see family history reflected in my clients every day. These euphemisms do more than gently acknowledge painful parts—they often signal unresolved trauma rippling through generations. A “burl” in nature suggests an interesting deviation, but it also points to a missing limb. “Irregularities” sound like bookkeeping errors. These terms create detachment, reducing lived experiences to historical footnotes. They gloss over real suffering and the way past hardships ripple into the present, influencing behavior, emotions, and even physical health.

Deciphering the Stories of Family Trauma

Consider a family tree marked by repeated instances of early death. Cemeteries sometimes capture this visually, with tree trunk monuments featuring severed limbs—a life cut short. A genealogist might dutifully record these losses, labeling them as “unfortunate events.” But such phrasing fails to probe deeper: Were these deaths due to disease, accidents, or something more insidious, like the lingering effects of trauma, systemic oppression, or even suicide? In my own family history, my estranged grandmother was reported missing for several months in 1939 and 1940 and was never seen again, as far as I know. Unaddressed mental health issues were suspected. She had given birth to my mother likely outside of a formal legal marriage in 1935 and left her to be adopted by my great-grandmother. When newspapers wrote about her disappearance, they first referred to her by her maiden name, but I discovered later reports used a married name my mother never recognized. Whether this name was the result of a brief relationship, a common-law marriage, or an attempt to reshape her identity, I may never know. But the uncertainty—the gaps in the record—speak to the way family trauma is often obscured. A genealogist might mark this period as “time unaccounted for” or an “unexplained absence,” but those phrases don’t capture the reality of a young woman, alone and lost, whose story was nearly erased. The identity of my mother's father, while hinted at on her birth certificate, remained uncertain until genetic genealogy in 2024 confirmed her true paternity. My mother’s unaddressed mental health issues and denial of her history’s psychological significance likely led her, at least in part, to an early grave in 1996. Consumer DNA testing and genetic genealogy led me to a more complete understanding based on scientific evidence and the historical record.

As a therapist, I ask: “How does this connect to a larger history?” Without exploring the scientific evidence and historical context, we risk missing crucial pieces of our family’s puzzle—or worse, falling into denial and obscurity. Just as no branch of a tree grows in isolation, we are not unmoored from the past. As I was once told, “We are not brains in vats,” living in a social vacuum disconnected from our families and history. The truth is, our past lives within us, shaping who we are today.

The Danger of Sanitizing the Past

Euphemisms often suggest passivity, as if traumatic events simply happened outside of human agency. But many family traumas—famines, genocides, racial violence—were the result of deliberate actions. To reduce atrocities like the Tulsa Race Massacre, the Great Potato Famine, or the Holocaust to mere “sensitive episodes” diminishes their reality and silences their historical impact —a sophisticated kind of denial.

Softening language in this way perpetuates a cycle of silence, making it harder for descendants to acknowledge and heal from inherited wounds. It’s not about sensationalizing the past but about recognizing the full spectrum of human experience—honoring not just survival but the suffering and resilience of those who came before us so that we can begin to heal in the present.

Toward a More Honest Family History

Instead of labeling these events with vague or minimizing terms, we need to engage with them. This means listening to the whispers and silences in our family narratives. It means using language that reflects the weight of these experiences, even when it’s uncomfortable—because discomfort is often a sign that healing is needed. Instead of euphemisms like “irregularities” or “sensitive episodes,” use precise, factual language: “reported domestic violence,” “died by suicide,” or “fled due to political persecution.” When evidence is incomplete, acknowledge uncertainty directly: “possible institutionalization according to family accounts, no records found to verify.” Add relevant historical context without sensationalism: “immigrated during famine” rather than “sought better opportunities.” The goal is to document events clearly while avoiding both minimization and dramatic language. State what is known, note what isn't, and let the facts speak for themselves.

By acknowledging the psychological weight of these histories, we can start to recognize intergenerational patterns in our own lives. Understanding inherited trauma creates space for self-compassion and deeper connection to our ancestors—not just as names on a chart but as real people who lived, suffered, and endured.

Our family trees are not just collections of dates and names; they are living landscapes of resilience, survival, and the enduring power of the human spirit. Like trees, our histories have deep roots—some twisted, some buried, some scarred by past storms. If we only tend to the visible branches, we risk ignoring the forces that shaped them. But when we acknowledge both the light and the shadows, we nourish the roots as well, allowing new growth to emerge—stronger, deeper, and more whole.

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