Generational Spirits: The Inheritance of Ancestors That Linger
- Marguerite Marie
- Jun 17
- 7 min read
Updated: Jun 28
We like to think we inherit last names, heirlooms, hair and eye color, but what about the things hidden, the things felt? The spirits we adopt without consent? The shadows we walk with hand in hand until entrapment reaches transcendence, and the cycle breaks. These are the responsibilities of the descendants. This is what our ancestors watch for, hope for, and wait for from beyond the realm of the living.
What about silence, rage, burden, addiction, or illness?
Where do the energies of past joy, pain, and untold stories stay?
What about the frequency of names we didn’t choose, but chant every day?
Where do the echoes of the ones who didn’t finish telling their story resound?
These aren’t histories. These are spirits. This post is for them.
For the ones who stay, and the ones we set free.
---
The Father
He is the one crowned with purpose.
The patriarch. The giver of names. The golden thread of identity.
He enters the mist with hands still warm from building empires.
After passing, his thrones are gone, his mirrors dissolve, and he must face who he is
without being needed.
Maybe you carry his ambition, him speaking to you in sermons you can no longer hear. Him pulling you to create something that outlasts him, but through you, he must learn that a legacy isn’t made in marble, but in your presence.
Maybe you carry his work ethic, his daily grind woven into the seams of your routine. He confused his reliability for identity, and his productivity for love. His soul aching and begging you to choose recognition, over reward.
Maybe you carry his speech, performing the image of himself, through you. Studying the world for cues on how to exist. Learning now, that truth does not live in others' expectations and perceptions, only in ones own essence.
Maybe you carry the man who lost himself, offering more than he had. His face shifting depending on who looked at him. Giving more to others than he had received; and now, he is forcing you to understand that prioritizing the needy, is nothing but misplaced pride.
---
The Mother
She is the one who remembers what no one else dared to feel.
The nurturer. The keeper of epigenetic memory. The pain hidden behind a smile.
She steps into the mist wrapped in silence and survival,
still clutching a photo of the life she held together while bleeding.
She is the matriarch, the moonlight, the arms that will continue to hold her children,
until they decide to let her go.
Maybe you carry her passion, her fierce devotion flaring quickly, then vanishing. She loved like lightning. Protected like a wildfire. Now, through you, she must learn that not all heat is warmth, and not every child wants to be saved.
Maybe you carry her labor, the quiet way she built security through repetition. Her love folded into laundry, offered through meals, measured in sacrifices no one asked her to make. Now she lives inside your urge to prove your worth, but aches for you to be held without earning it.
Maybe you carry her thoughts, how she overexplained her feelings so no one would drown in them, or kept silent for the sake of peace. She became the listener, the wise one, for everyone but herself. Now, through you, she longs to speak without apology. Without editing, for expression alone.
Maybe you carry her sorrow, how she dissolved into those she loved. Her edges blurred by everyone’s needs but her own. She wept the carried over tears of ten generations, but never once for herself. And now, she begs you to remember that love without boundaries is not love, it’s erasure.
---
The Child
The little one who never stopped asking questions.
The quick one, full of life. The clever one, full of wonder.
The babe, who didn't have to speak to be heard.
The extra set of hands around the house.
They stepped into the mist with pockets full of unfinished thoughts and stories
that were never theirs to tell.
They are hope, curiosity, and the laughter that continues to echo.
They are the coo that settles in our hearts.
Maybe you carry their vitality, how it sparked through action, eager to be bigger than they ever got to be. They turned questions into declarations, and wit into defense. But through you, they must learn that not all words should cut. Some truths need silence to land.
Maybe you carry their diligence, how they turned family chaos into systems, their panic into plans. They did duties instead of playing. Apologizing for their feelings by doing what was expected of them. Now they move through your fingers, begging to play, to create, not to fix.
Maybe you carry their spinning mind, how they lived in the space between sentences. They talked to avoid being still, and rationalized what hurt too much to express. Maybe they never got a chance to speak their truth, or tell their story. They linger now in your need for explanation, begging you to understand that life doesn't always make sense.
Maybe you carry their quiet grief, how they slipped between identities, becoming what others needed them to be. They laughed when they wanted to cry. They stayed light so others wouldn’t sink. They carried their parents, instead of their parents cradling them. Now, they ask you to receive the love they yearned for, and deserved all along.
---
The Brother | The Fighter
He is the one who acted before he was asked.
The protector. The punisher.
The one who didn't hope to be saved, but took fate into his own hands.
He enters the mist still clenching his fists, carrying the weight of duty on his shoulders.
His anger, his courage, and the pain behind control.
Continuing to fight battles that were never his to win.
Maybe you carry his heat, how he burst into rooms like a rescue, chest first, voice loud, heart armored. He mistook urgency for importance, mistook movement for meaning. He needed to be seen as strong more than he needed to be safe. He charged into pain like it was his calling, never letting his own wounds speak. And now, through you, he must learn that not every battle is righteous, and not every flame needs to be fed.
Maybe you carry his duty, how he built his strength in silence. He stayed because someone had to, shouldering what others dropped, wearing exhaustion like armor. He lives now in your refusal to rest, but through you, he is taught that true strength doesn’t include staying past your breaking point.
Maybe you carry his confusion, how he overthought every action. Questioning his instincts only after the damage was done. He tried to argue his way though life, but war was never meant to be solved in the mind. Now he lives in your hesitation, asking you to trust silence, reminding you that some debates are for fools.
Maybe you carry his heartbreak, how he drowned in the emotions he never named. He lashed out so he wouldn’t have to say he was hurting. He mistook his grief for fury, and his tears for weakness. Now he lingers in your jaw, your chest, your skin, begging you to feel what he never could. To cry before you break. To soften before you destroy everything you love.
---
The Sister | The Lover
She is the one who adorned herself in limerence.
The soft touch in the shadow.
The woman who made herself beautiful, so no one would question if she was hurting.
She enters the mist with a heart wrapped in velvet and shame,
smelling like someone else’s perfume.
She is elegance, hunger, temptation, and the desire to be kept.
Maybe you carry her charm, how she learned to be chosen, not to choose. She used flirtation to survive, smiled to stay safe, and kept her truth beneath red lipstick and black lace. But through you, she teaches that being wanted is not the same as being loved.
Maybe you carry her grace, how she made everything beautiful, even what broke her. She stitched pain into performance, curated her wounds until they looked like art. Now, she lives in your need to stay composed in the midst of chaos, but longs for you to be seen without needing to be perfect.
Maybe you carry her questions, how she rationalized desire to keep it at a distance. She loved through metaphors, wanted poetry but settled for patterns. She studied others instead of feeling for herself. Now she lingers in your analyzation of ache, asking you to stop performing connection and simply receive it. Not every desire needs an explanation. Not every love needs a script.
Maybe you carry her longing, how she chased love that mirrored her abandonment. She called it fate when they left, called it romance when it hurt. She mistook attention for devotion, and fantasy for safety. She stayed soft so others wouldn't be scared, bit her tongue so no one would leave. Now she stirs in your restlessness, waiting behind your eyes, asking you to choose differently. To remember: beauty should not be a muzzle, and to not mistake softness for submission.
---
The Missing Ones | An Ode to the Unspoken Ancestors
They were never mothers, or fathers, not siblings, or children at passing.
When they left they took their bloodline with them;
whether it be above, below, or somewhere in-between.
They are the ones
who searched the stars for meaning and mistook belief for truth.
They are the ones
who followed the rules until they forgot who they were without them.
They are the ones
who dissolved into longing and called disappearance devotion.
They are the ones
who shattered the family pattern, then left no map for return.
They are not ours to name
but we carry them, too.
They are not ours to name
but we feel them move in our bones, and hear them in the breeze. Warning, guiding, and guarding us though life, too.
I do not speak for them.
But we carry them, too.
Comments