Releasing & Reclaiming Through Ancestral Stories
- Stillness in Storms
- Mar 25
- 6 min read
The Power of Ancestral Narratives
I first started exploring ancestral stories as a young child. I think most of us do, in some way. Some of us have the privilege of sitting with our grandparents, listening to stories about their childhoods—the people who came before them, the traditions they carried, and the landscapes they knew by heart. Others of us come to those stories in different ways—through the memories our parents chose to share, or even through the things they didn’t say, the silences that shaped our understanding just as much as the spoken words.
But something shifted in my preteen years. I started to realize there were pieces of my own story that were missing. My mother, a brown child adopted into a white family, grew up without access to the cultural narratives that help define who we are as Native people in a world that often tries to erase us. And that loss didn’t stop with her—it rippled into me and my siblings, leaving gaps that I’ve been trying to fill ever since.
I learned early on that stories aren’t just entertainment—they’re maps. They show us who we come from, where we’ve been, and how we carry those histories forward, whether we realize it or not. The stories I heard—about resilience, hardship, laughter, and survival—began to shape how I saw my parents, and over time, they shaped how I saw myself. I also realized that the missing stories of my bio family were equally important in learning how to orient myself as a brown person in the world.
I started to understand that I am not just an individual moving through the world—I am a continuation of those who came before me, their joys and struggles written into the fabric of my being.
The Weight and Wisdom of Inherited Stories
Some stories offered me strength. My maternal grandfather, a rodeo clown and trick rider, taught me to ride horses—both English and trick. Both maternal and paternal grandparents and great-grandparents taught me about resilience through their Depression-era stories. I inherited values from both sides: the importance of working hard, of caring for what you have, of showing up even when life is hard.
But there were other stories—stories that felt heavier, stories that left a residue. My mom shared painful memories of abuse. Her first adoptive mother was murdered in front of her when she was around two, and I felt the burden of that story every time the killer came up for parole. I also experienced the fear, uncertainty, and inconsistent maternal attunement linked to her frequent hospital stays due to the intense mental and emotional distress she endured.
Both sides of my family, like many, held race-based beliefs that were hard to navigate as a nonwhite child in a white family. I heard disparaging remarks about people who weren't white. Sometimes the comments were even about me and my appearance. There were also racist stereotypes shared about Blacks, Asians, Mexicans, and Natives. Dangerous, lazy, "only a few good ones", lustful, inferior, thieves and alcoholics.
Ironically, stories of alcoholism in my white father's family are discussed in relation to ancestors. It remains a "hush hush" issue affecting living members. Through generations the abusive behavior has been normalized and rebranded as a privilege linked to hard work, relaxation, or enjoyment. Those who point out the bad behavior are seen as troublemakers, while those who can't conceal it well enough are pitied. I believe these things are related to unhealed generational trauma and fear of facing the pain in order to heal.
There are stories and feelings I’ve had to unlearn. I’ve had to challenge narratives about race, success, and shame. I’ve had to wrestle with ancestral wounds around acceptance, loss, and a deep-seated need to prove my worth. But I’ve also inherited a strong work ethic, developed a deeply emotional and intuitive nature, and a desire to make the world more compassionate. I now know these gifts were passed down, even when the stories that carried them were fractured.
Releasing: Letting Go of the Stories That No Longer Serve
Healing has meant learning that I don’t have to be bound by every ancestral experience—abuse, murder, alcoholism. These stories don’t have to define me. Even when things like racism feel outside my control, I can still choose how I respond, how I carry my own story forward.
Rituals, writing, and creative expression help me release what weighs heavy. When I put my feelings on paper, I can see them clearly. I start to notice patterns, barriers, and flawed beliefs I’ve outgrown.
This month, I’ve been learning about EMDR therapy and the power of identifying negative cognitions and processing unhealed memories. Fascinating doesn’t even begin to describe it. And when I step into nature—when I walk in my garden or watch the trees sway—I notice how it mirrors EMDR, the way my eyes naturally scan the horizon, left and right, helping my body release what my mind holds onto.
Nature, like healing, is a cycle. It releases. It regenerates. It keeps going.
Reclaiming: Honoring the Gifts and Wisdom of Ancestors
Reclaiming has been just as important as releasing. I’m reclaiming a more realistic view of what it means to be a modern Choctaw—resisting the harmful racial and romanticized stereotypes and instead embracing a layered, evolving identity. I’ve reclaimed the use of certain plants alongside prayer. I plan to begin shell carving this summer. I’ve reclaimed a relationship with the earth, even if it’s just in my small backyard garden.
Since meeting my biological family, I’ve gained clarity around my genetics, my emotional traits, and my lineage. I recently learned that my mom’s biological mother—whom she never got to meet—shared my deep, feeling nature. It’s amazing how these things live in our bones, waiting to be recognized.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned from my ancestors is that unabashed love and helping others is what makes us good people. Their lives were filled with hardship, and yet many remained able to express kindness. That has inspired me to soften, to examine my own defensiveness, and to remember that my ancestors love me. They are proud of me. Knowing this roots me in a way nothing else can.
Yakoke, Poknis.
Practical Ways to Connect with Ancestral Stories (Even if you don't know where to begin)
There’s no one way to begin this work—and no “right” way either. Whether you have a detailed family tree or know very little about your lineage, there are still so many meaningful entry points to explore connection, belonging, and ancestral wisdom.
Start with food. What dishes bring you comfort? What herbs or spices are familiar to you, or call to you intuitively? Even if you don’t know what your ancestors cooked, you can begin by honoring the ingredients that feel nourishing to your body and spirit now.
Connect to land and place. You might not know exactly where your people came from, but you can still connect to the land you’re on—observe the trees, the animals, the shifting skies. Reflect on how your body responds to different landscapes.
Follow your instincts. What creative practices feel like home in your body—beading, weaving, gardening, music, movement, storytelling? These threads often lead us back to something deeper, something remembered.
Explore collective stories. If personal family stories aren’t accessible, look to cultural or regional histories. Read about the migrations, struggles, and celebrations of communities you feel connected to, whether by blood or spirit.
Create your own ritual. Light a candle. Write a letter to the ancestors you’ve never met, or to the ones you wish you had. Speak to them anyway. You don’t have to know their names to feel their presence.
Listen for what calls you. Music, dreams, scent, memory—sometimes ancestral connection arrives in subtle ways.
For me, connection often comes through gardening, cultural art, and more recently, music. My biological uncle recently shared nearly a hundred songs my mom’s birth mother loved. Listening to them makes me feel tethered to her—this woman I never met, but whose essence lives in me.
But connection doesn’t always need to be so direct. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s chosen. Sometimes it’s spiritual.
Right now, prayer is the ancestral practice I return to most. I speak to those I’ve lost. I speak to those I never knew. Sometimes, I even speak to my mother.
Whether you are adopted, estranged, grieving, or simply unsure where to start, please know: You still belong. You are still rooted. Your story is still sacred.
Start where you are. Let your curiosity be the doorway. Your body remembers things your mind may not. And your ancestors—whoever and wherever they are—still walk with you.
Reflection and Call to Action
There is no healing without storytelling. But not all stories must be kept. Some deserve to be released, set down like stones we’ve carried too long. Others are sacred threads—worthy of being honored, protected, and woven into our lives again.
Journaling Prompts for You:
What is one story from your ancestry that gives you strength?
What is one ancestral pattern you are ready to release?
If you could have a conversation with one ancestor, what would you ask them?
What traditions, practices, or wisdom from your ancestors do you want to reclaim?
You don’t need to know your whole family tree to begin. Start with what’s within reach—start with your own story. That, too, is sacred.
Conclusion
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means remembering with clarity, choosing what to carry, and honoring where we come from without being bound by it.
I hope you release what weighs you down.
I hope you reclaim what roots you deeply.
I hope your story become a bridge—between past, present, and future.
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