Red Rover, Red Rover, I Send Generational Trauma Over...

 

     Red Rover was never just a game. I remember the taut tension, the anticipation, the collision when hands met hands and children fell into each other's arms, some laughing, some crying, all bruised in some way. 

     That memory, playful and terrifying in equal measure, became the metaphor for the invisible force threading through my family: trauma. A force passed down like a secret handshake, carried in the body, the cells, the very DNA that knits one generation to the next. It is both inherited and imposed, a chemical echo of suffering reverberating across decades, unacknowledged yet potent, shaping lives before those lives have had a chance to understand themselves. 

     Science calls this epigenetic inheritance, a phenomenon where environmental stressors, abuse, neglect and trauma leave marks on our genetic code, altering the regulation of stress hormones and neural pathways. Research by Yehuda et al. (2016) demonstrates that descendants of trauma survivors often show heightened cortisol responses, an overactive sympathetic nervous system, and increased vulnerability to anxiety, depression and addiction. Meaney and Szyf (2005) explain that these molecular imprints are not mutations in the classic sense but modifications that "prime"  the body to anticipate danger, even in the absence of the original threat. In my family, these marks traveled quietly from my grandma, through my mom, and into me, a cellular transmission of untamed disarray and resilience, fear and longing. 

     My grandma Betty, my mom's mom, was a woman both luminous and tormented. She spent time in Riverview, a mental institution that stood as a concrete testament to her struggles. Diagnoses, medications, and the institutional routines did little to soften the quiet violence of her mind. She carried a love affair with a sailor, a man on a Navy ship whose presence was brief, leaving behind a child, my mom, who would grow up in the shadow of absence. My mom never knew him. Only in the past few years did she meet his other children, unaware of her existence until decades had passed. Secrets shaped our lineage like invisible chains, and my mom's spirit was forged in the gaps between what was present and what was withheld.

     From the start, she sought love in hazardous places. Alcohol, drugs, men and fleeting connections filled the void left by a mother's unstable affection and a father's absence. Her childhood had been marked by cruelty; abuse, linked through her earliest memories. She and her siblings were removed from her mother's care, thrust into the uncertain embrace of the foster system. There, she met Ruth and Archie Walker, my grandparents in all the ways that gave me roots. They nurtured her, offered stability, and taught her kindness, yet even their love could not entirely shield her from the unsettled spirit she had inherited. 

     And then came the children- me, the oldest. From her patterns, I learned, almost instinctively, the ways of seeking, craving and self-destruction. My first sip of alcohol came at thirteen, a case of Black Label beer shared with peers whose innocence matched mine. The rage I carried became a companion, relentless and explosive. Fights erupted over imagined slights, over the wrong glance, over the world daring to exist around me. I was violent and loving, merciless and tender, my contradictions mirroring my mom's own dualities. I bullied as I had been bullied, and I loved in excess, in search of validation that had never been freely given. 

     My adolescence was punctuated by brushes with the law, drunken misadventures that might have ended in charges, but never did. 

     Promiscuity began early, a mimicry of the patterns I observed and absorbed. The men I attracted were often reflections of what I knew: violent, damaged, or addicted. We moved constantly, homes never permanent, replication of my mom's transient youth. 

     I became a people-pleaser, a caretaker of other's emotions, a mediator of mayhem, it stood before me- nameless and immense. 

     Yet trauma did not manifest uniformly. My middle brother, gifted in both art and the meticulous logic of electrical work, wrestled quietly with the generational shadows of our family. 

     The youngest, an overachiever, stoic and disciplined, absorbed our childhood silently, responding to its wounds with pragmatism rather than protest. Each of us carried fragments of our grandma and mom, yet filtered them through individual temperaments and choices, a kaleidoscope of fortitude and inherited vulnerability. 

     Trauma operates through more than just memory or anecdote; it lives in the body. Cortisol surges, sympathetic nervous system overactivation, and disrupted attachment patterns form a physiological blueprint for distress. Early adversity, as studies show, programs the limbic system to overinterpret threat, to respond with heightened aggression or avoidance, and to internalize blame. We tolerate mistreatment, unconsciously believing we deserve it. Our nervous systems are conditioned to anticipate harm, even when harm is absent, shaping relational patterns, addictive behaviors, and emotional regulation for decades. Understanding these mechanisms has been a revelation, a lens through which my history and my mom's behaviours gain context without excusing the pain they caused. 

     Knowledge fosters empathy. Studying psychology illuminates the why behind behaviours, the neurochemical imperatives driving choices once attributed solely to moral weakness or poor judgement. I see my mom now as a human, flawed yet striving, a vessel of both bestowed suffering and remarkable iron will. She endured what few could, yet survived, worked in addictions for twenty years, and offered guidance to others when she herself was still learning how to navigate her own labyrinth of wounds. My aunts, likewise, devoted themselves to child protection and addictions, a family ethos born of necessity: when care was scarce in our upbringing, we learned to cultivate it for others.

     The women in my bloodline, though demarcated by trauma, embody the spine of resolve. Their endurance , the subtle courage in daily survival, the acts of love even amid instability, are legacies of phoenix fire. My mom, treated differently than her siblings, bore not only her own pain but also the visible reminder of my grandma's regrets. Seeing her as a human being- rather than a vessel of my own hurt, has been transformative. Compassion, informed by understanding, erodes anger and builds bridges across the chasms of history, connecting generations through acknowledgement rather than repetition. 

     Breaking the cycle is neither simple nor instantaneous. It is deliberate, conscious, and painstaking work. I study, reflect, and seek therapy, striving to recognize the moments when patterns of inheritance threaten to repeat. I strive to channel impulses into creativity, advocacy and connection, to redirect the energy of passed down rage into meaningful action. The game of Red Rover is reversed: rather than sending trauma down the line, I attempt to send resilience, awareness, and love.   Pain becomes a teacher, not a jailer; heritage transforms from curse to catalyst. 

     This work is ongoing. I stumble, falter, and sometimes revert, but awareness is a weapon, and education is armor. Each decision, each act of reflection, each moment of restraint builds a new crown. I honor the struggles of my grandma and mom not by repeating their patterns, but by giving voice to their humanity, their survival, and the power they unwittingly placed in my hands.

     Red Rover, Red Rover: we do not have to pass trauma over. We can pass down understanding, adaptability, and deliberate compassion. We can break the cycle, not erase the past, but transcend it. Trauma may linger in our cells, but it does not have to dictate our choices. By naming it, studying it, and confronting it, we reclaim agency. We transform legacy into a genetic gift of strength, awareness, and purpose.

     In the collision of history and biology, of memory and choice, we find the possibility of transcendence. The game continues, but the rules have changed. Hands still meet hands, bodies still collide, but now the impact carries something different: validation, compassion, and the conscious choice to build a better ancestral bequest. Pain becomes power. Chaos becomes clarity. Generational trauma, once sent down as a curse, can be returned as knowledge, love and resilience. And in that transformation, we finally, finally run free. 

     Written by Janine Reid

                                                                REFERENCES

1. Yehuda, R., Daskalakis, N.P., Bierer, L.M., Bader, H.N., Klengel, T., Holsboer, F., & Binder, E. B. (2016). Holocaust exposure induced intergenerational effects on FKBP5 methylation. Biological Psychiatry, 80(5), 372-380. 

2. Meaney, M.J., & Szyf, M. (2005). Environmental programming of stress responses through DNA methylation: Life at the interface between a dynamic environment and a fixed genome. Dialogues in Clinical Neuroscience, 7(2), 103-123.