There are stories I carry with me — some told, some only whispered through the walls of my home, through the memories of those who came before me. They aren’t always happy stories. The majority of the time are heavy, some are full of fear, of the things unsaid, of all the seem older than me.
For far too long, I had no idea what to do with them. I tried to rush things, to outrun the weight of what wasn’t mine, to make my own life seem simple. But the stories always caught up.
Then I realised something simple and powerful: telling them, hearing them, writing them down — that’s where the healing begins.
Stories don’t just pass from generation to generation. They linger, they shape us, they teach us, and sometimes — just sometimes — they give us the courage to be gentler with ourselves.
Generational trauma is the kind of pain that doesn’t just come from a person being alive; it arises from families through stories, habits, fears and unspoken rules. However, in India, it comes in many forms like caste-based discrimination, the struggles of migration or the quiet weight of unhealed family wounds.
For so long, these experiences were rarely talked about in the open. Many families were saddled with the burden in silence, and children semester to carry them on without realising. These invisible threads of trauma shape how generations make decisions, how they relate and even how they sometimes see themselves.
The reason storytelling matters is that Literature — whether fiction, memoir, or poetry tends to give a form to this invisible inheritance we carry. By writing stories about generational pain, people can now recognise patterns, feel seen, and begin to break the weight they’ve carried all along.
Literary scholars talk about the fact that modern narratives, which address generational trauma, help societies realise the patterns that foster emotional resilience. It was also seen in the contemporary South Asian fiction that talks about trauma narratives that there is an order of linear storytelling that follows a precise plot. It begins with silence surrounding stories, which then develop the uncovering of a story and the subsequent collapsing of silence, and thereafter leads to liberation and a post-trauma phase. This linear form of storytelling does not immediately resonate in guiding works of trauma theory.
It is something an individual, a society and even a nation seems to carry. The ways we learn to heal or seek closure, where a person is done with their traumatic past.
What surprises me the most is how writers today seem to carry forward a kind of quiet and powerful work: they can transform stories that were once in the dark and transform them into ways we can use for understanding and healing.
Authors like Perumal Murugan, Arundhati Subramaniam, and memoirists writing about caste, migration, and family histories are doing something profound by making unseen pain seen. Through their words, readers aren’t just exposed to characters on pages, but they are able to transmute the feeling of fear inherited and the unspoken rules that shape families, and the willingness to break cycles.
These stories call for reflection. They make us slow down. They remind us that trauma shouldn’t just be a personal experience; it should be communal and passed down through generations.
It is important because, unlike news reports, literature in itself gives us the space we need for emotion and memory. Readers can take breaks and connect the missing dots and link them up to their own personal experiences while reading. That’s why storytelling should be seen as more than art — it’s a powerful form of healing.
One story that had a deep imprint on me was that of Perumal Murugan’s reflections on family and caste in his novels. What shocks me the most is how he doesn’t narrate a story — he lets you feel the weight of all the pain, fear and the longing for dignity all inherited.
Reading him, I could already see how trauma travels in silent ways through generations. We all can see a child learning what they shouldn’t, what they cannot hope for, and the unspoken rules that seem to shape us in every step. And within the same story, I could feel resilience, courage and the possibility of breaking free all at once.
For me, this can’t just be seen as literature. It’s a mirror that makes me trace my inherited stories, how we carry past hurts without even realising it, and the moments when we decide to start healing.
Stories of this kind remind me that trauma doesn’t always have to define you— but when you’re able to acknowledge it, feel it, and give it a voice, then you can start the healing process.
For me, what literature in this form teaches us profound things that our inherited stories still hold ground. They shape our very own reality and how we treat people around us, and also how we treat ourselves. Within those stories, there’s always power.
When we read through, we feel seen. When we write them, we gain pieces of ourselves in them. Storytelling becomes an act of courage that breaks cycles.
I realise now that healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a whisper, more like a thought, a page, a conversation that begins Stories which carry the weight of generations — and have the power to heal it.
Literature can make the unseen trauma seen. Healing can be reflective and intentional.
Writing or reading is not just art; it’s care in the simplest of ways, either for yourself and your community.
Generational trauma can travel, but stories then give it a voice. By sharing these narratives, we don’t just assimilate our history — we begin to challenge it.
So put time out to read, write, and look back on your journey. Your inherited stories were never burdens— they are now bridges. And every bridge you cross is leading you closer to understanding and compassion.
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