Somatic Legacies

Il faut souffrir pour être belle

My grand-mother was taught that a woman's worth is in her suffering.

And just like that, this belief, this curse, this poison, was passed down to the next generations. Just like that, my grand-mother, my mother, myself and probably my daughter too - made suffering a sign of strength.

One of the simplest examples that comes to my mind, almost woven into my skin, is a sentence I heard over and over again in childhood and adolescence, even into adulthood: “Il faut souffrir pour être belle”¹. I heard it when I fought the woollen scratchy pullover on my bare skin as a 2 year-old, when I struggled against the super-tight ponytail when I only wished for my hair to be free and messy, or when I got slapped on the back of my hand as I was reaching for yet another piece of bread, because… I had already eaten too much! Even in my twenties, as my mother zipped me into a tight, suffocating dress for a friend’s wedding, the words still echoed in my ears.

A collage from the series “if my grand mother was”

I thought this was just a “say”, something that had no real impact or consequences in one´s life. But it did. Suffering and pain became normalised. They shaped my existence. The more you suffer, the stronger you become. Like a trophy to be won. Suffering as strength. Proof of endurance. This is how patterns are installed and perpetuated. This is how harm is installed and perpetuated.

My mother didn’t know better, so she could not protect me from that. She was just doing the same as the other women before her, not able to question any of it, shaping herself and her daughters into something the world would accept. In doing so, she became the enforcer of the same system that hurt her.

I was not raised to be seen, I was raised to be good.

The more obedient I was, the safer I would be. The more silent, the more acceptable.

Love became control, control became tyranny, tyranny became abuse.

There was no other way.

When I think about these times, I get really sad. It’s not that things are so much better now, but at least, we’ve taken steps forward. We have rebelled. It was not just defiance, it was a rejection of everything we were sacrificed for. Our rebellion has taken many forms. Some of us have stepped into our power by educating ourselves and others, some of us have understood that connecting more deeply with one another was the answer to many of our pain.

I did both. I educated myself and I connected with others. When I stepped into my power, it was such a victory. Not only for myself but also for my lineage. Eventually, the thing I did not foresee is that whatever you do, such a legacy leaves a heavy somatic imprint. Healing can then feel like betrayal. Rebellion like disaster. The family system is not ready for it. Patterns and legacies are complex; we are not taught that love can change us, that love can evolve us, that we can break the cycle. I see that every day around me.

The way some people resist change, resist healing, is extraordinary. The resistance we feel toward breaking old patterns can sometimes feel like life and death because at one point it was. The mother wound was never just about your mother - it was about the system that shaped her, the world that broke her and the silence she was forced to survive in. So when we heal, we don’t just heal for ourselves. We heal for our mothers too. We heal for the system too. And maybe, for the first time, we step into a love that doesn’t demand suffering.

I don´t blame my mother anymore. I used to. But I am at peace with her now. I am sorry that she was forced to compete and not to connect. The system made her fight for Male approval, for security, for survival. The system turned emotional neglect into survival. Love didn’t come with tenderness - it came with discipline. Affection was some kind of a weakness. Vulnerability was a risk. Shame was also part of the game; it became a parenting tool, because fear was the only way she knew. She thought she would keep us safe. If we felt small, docile, if we didn’t ask for too much, maybe we wouldn’t be punished by the world. The system forced our mothers to mother from exhaustion, not abundance. It gave them no time, no rest, no resources. It made them feel like failures, so they had nothing left to give us. And so, for better or worse, we were raised to be strong. That is why we were never held.

The body remembers before the mind understands. And transformation cannot be rushed. It somehow happens in the stillness, in the waiting—in the body finally exhaling after generations of holding its breath, where patience makes space for something new to take root. It holds what was never spoken, what was passed down in silence. But just as suffering leaves an imprint, so does healing.

And maybe, for the first time, I am learning how to pass down that too. I choose to carry something else. Even in the tension of my shoulders, in the clench of my jaw, in the way I flinch before I am even touched, even if I have inherited suffering, it is my intention to pass on the legacy of tenderness, of humility, of gentle actions. The legacy of a possible change.

I am learning to let go of the poison. Pain is not a proof of strength. Suffering does not make me a better or a special person.

In my body, for the first time, I am choosing to rest.

1. One must suffer to be beautiful.