Sometimes I wonder if everything I feel truly began with me. Some fears have no memory. Some sadness has roots we cannot trace. Some reactions feel older than my own life. As if my body remembers something my mind never knew. Sometimes we inherit from our families the things they could not heal. The grief they swallowed. The fear they learned to live with. The silence they mistook for survival. And somehow, traces of those traumas can find their way into us. Sometimes the body becomes the archive of what was never spoken.