The Patterns We Inherit

I've often wondered how much of who we are is shaped by the people who came before us.

Not just the traditions we inherit or the stories our families tell, but the things that often go unspoken. The pain people carry. The ways they learn to survive. The relationships they form, the choices they make, and sometimes, the patterns they unintentionally pass down.

In 2017, while pursuing my Master of Social Work at the University of Southern California, I was asked to complete a family-of-origin assignment. The task involved creating a genogram, essentially a family tree that maps relationships, patterns, and significant experiences across generations.

At first, it seemed like another graduate school assignment.

But as I began tracing my family history, I realized I wasn't simply learning about the generations before me.

I was beginning to understand parts of myself.

Looking Back at the Generations Before Me

As I explored my family history, certain patterns became difficult to ignore.

Across three generations, there were recurring experiences of domestic violence, substance misuse, abuse, family separation, foster care, and unresolved trauma.

What struck me wasn't simply that these experiences happened. It was how the consequences of one generation's circumstances seemed to influence the next.

I began thinking about the ways people learn to navigate relationships when instability is familiar. How someone who has experienced violence might become fearful of trusting others. How a person who grew up without emotional support might struggle to provide something they were never shown.

And how children can end up carrying the emotional consequences of experiences that began long before they were born.

I wasn't looking at my family history to assign blame.

I wanted to understand how things had unfolded the way they did.

Sometimes, when we look at the people who raised us, we see their behaviors without fully understanding the experiences that shaped them.

Looking across generations gave me a different perspective. It didn't make harmful behavior acceptable, but it helped me recognize that family patterns rarely begin with just one person.

Growing Up and Learning to Survive

I spent much of my childhood in foster care, moving between homes and navigating relationships that weren't always safe or consistent.

There were times when the adults in my life were unable to provide the stability and care that children need.

As a result, I learned to adapt.

I learned how to manage uncertainty, how to depend on myself, and how to recognize when situations around me were becoming unpredictable.

But I also began developing beliefs about relationships.

When people repeatedly leave your life, it can become difficult to believe that others will stay.

When you've experienced hurt from people who were supposed to protect you, trusting someone new doesn't always come naturally.

And when you grow up hearing negative things about yourself, those messages can follow you long after the circumstances have changed.

For a long time, I didn't necessarily recognize these responses as connected to my childhood.

They were simply part of how I understood myself and the world.

Looking back, I can see how some of those responses developed as ways of navigating difficult circumstances.

They made sense in the environments where I learned them.

But that didn't mean I wanted to carry every one of them into adulthood.

Understanding My Family Without Excusing the Harm

One of the more complicated parts of examining family history is recognizing that people can be both harmed by their experiences and responsible for the harm they cause.

Learning about the adversity experienced by earlier generations helped me better understand some of the behaviors and relationship patterns I had witnessed.

There were experiences involving violence, instability, and limited access to emotional support.

I began considering how different things might have been if previous generations had access to therapy, supportive relationships, and resources to help them navigate what they had experienced.

Would certain patterns have changed?

Would relationships have developed differently?

Would some of the pain that carried into the next generation have been interrupted?

Of course, I can't know.

But those questions changed the way I thought about my family.

I began seeing the importance of understanding people's circumstances without minimizing the impact of their actions.

Understanding why someone may have behaved a certain way doesn't mean we have to accept what happened.

Both compassion and accountability can exist together.

Recognizing What I Wanted to Do Differently

As I continued studying my family's patterns, I also began reflecting on the resources and experiences that had helped me.

Throughout parts of my childhood, I had opportunities to participate in therapy and learn ways of managing difficult emotions.

Journaling and prayer also became important ways for me to process my experiences.

These practices didn't change what had happened, but they gave me opportunities to respond differently.

I could begin recognizing what I was feeling rather than allowing every emotion to overwhelm me.

I could question some of the beliefs I had developed about myself.

And I could begin thinking more intentionally about the types of relationships I wanted in my life.

I realized that recognizing a family pattern doesn't automatically mean we're destined to repeat it.

It means we have an opportunity to become more aware of it.

And sometimes, that awareness is where change begins.

When Our Experiences Shape How We Care for Others

One of the final parts of my assignment asked me to consider how my personal history might influence my work as a social worker.

This was something I hadn't fully considered.

I knew that my experiences helped me empathize with people who had experienced trauma, family separation, or instability.

But I also began recognizing that empathy could become complicated when someone's story reminded me of my own.

What if I assumed a client felt abandoned simply because I had experienced similar circumstances?

What if I believed that someone wanted to reconnect with their family because that was something I had struggled with?

What if my desire to help someone was influenced more by what I had needed in the past than what they actually wanted in the present?

These questions introduced me to a concept called countertransference, which involves the ways a therapist's personal experiences and emotional responses can influence the therapeutic relationship.

I realized that having similar experiences doesn't mean two people will interpret those experiences the same way.

Someone may want to rebuild a relationship that another person chooses to leave behind.

Someone may find meaning in an experience that another person continues to grieve.

And both perspectives can be valid.

Our experiences may help us understand another person's pain, but they should never lead us to assume we already know their story.

That realization became an important part of how I understood my responsibility as a developing social worker.

We Can Honor Our History Without Repeating It

Looking back on this assignment, what stays with me most isn't the genogram itself.

It's the realization that family history can help explain so much about the ways we experience relationships, emotions, and ourselves.

We inherit more than physical characteristics.

We may also grow up surrounded by particular ways of communicating, responding to conflict, expressing affection, or protecting ourselves.

Some of those patterns are worth preserving.

Others may be patterns we eventually decide to change.

And changing them isn't always easy, especially when they've been familiar for most of our lives.

But understanding where they came from can help us approach ourselves and our families with greater awareness.

I don't believe examining our past requires us to remain attached to it.

Nor do I believe that understanding someone's trauma requires us to excuse the harm they've caused.

What I have come to appreciate is that healing can involve holding several truths at once.

We can recognize what previous generations experienced while acknowledging how their actions affected us.

We can appreciate the strengths that helped us survive while learning new ways to live.

And we can accept that our families helped shape us without believing they get to determine who we become.

We may not be responsible for the patterns we inherited, but we can become intentional about the ones we carry forward.

For me, that is one of the most meaningful lessons of understanding my family of origin.

Not that the past can be changed, but that our relationship with it can.

Author's Note: This reflection is adapted from a family-of-origin assignment I completed in October 2017 while pursuing my Master of Social Work at the University of Southern California. Identifying details about family members have been omitted to respect their privacy.

Reflection Question: Have you ever recognized a pattern in your family that helped you understand something about yourself?