Inheritance

My mother once told me, “We come from a long line of long-suffering women.”

I don’t remember the moment she said it, but I remember the weight of it, how that belief wrapped its vine around my psyche and held fast. Her nonchalance suggested a quiet pride, as though this legacy of silence, of endurance, of unmet needs and buried desires, was simply part of what it meant to be a woman. Suffering as strength.

Another law of my upbringing was the edict to keep a stiff upper lip. It was undignified to make a scene or otherwise express difficult emotions. Pain was to be borne stoically. Crying, complaining, or asking for help was attention-seeking, and attention-seeking was frowned upon.

It’s Mother’s Day, and I am thinking about this aspect of my inheritance, and what I am ready to release.

I was never very good at the stiff upper lip rule. I was a sensitive, emotional child who cried loudly, expressed my feelings freely, and couldn’t seem to swallow my emotions quietly enough. My failure earned me the nickname Sarah Bernhardt.

Sarah Bernhardt was the most famous stage actress of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She was known for her extravagant performances and unapologetic presence, both on and off the stage. In a world that prized contained and quiet women, she refused to be either.

Though today I find much to admire in her bold defiance of convention, I knew then that being called Sarah Bernhardt wasn’t a compliment. It meant I was too much. Too emotional. Too dramatic. Too bossy.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, that voice grew loud again, warning me not to be a Sarah B. I was devastated and terrified. I wanted to cry out, to beg and plead with the universe to reverse the irreversible.

But my inheritance rushed in just as fiercely. Keep it together. Be strong. Show them what you’re made of. I did as I was told.

I threw myself into a regimen of control—a plant-based diet, supplements, acupuncture, craniosacral therapy, daily walks, weight training, yoga. I mastered the art of sleep hygiene, convinced that if I just tried hard enough, I could discipline my body back into health.

On the tough days, I tried to swallow my fear and forge ahead, determined to be stronger than the disease. Determined to keep Sarah B. locked out of my mind.

And yet, disappointment followed disappointment. Each bone marrow biopsy brought more bad news. Too much myeloma. No stem cell transplant. No reprieve.

My resolve faltered. The façade cracked. Long-suffering wasn’t saving me. I needed a break.

To mark my 60th birthday, and my husband’s 70th, we rented a beach house on the Baja Peninsula. For six luminous weeks, the ocean was my sanctuary.

Mornings began with barefoot walks on the beach, and the thrilling sight of whales cresting the horizon. Dolphins played just beyond the breakers. Days were sun-drenched and shared with friends and family. Meals were filled with flavor and laughter.

Living on the beach softened everything hard. In that wide, wild beauty, I remembered how to simply live.

It was a turning point. I realized that a stiff upper lip would not carry me through what lay ahead. I would need help. And I would have to ask for it. Sarah B. be damned.

I returned to intense treatment with high-dose Cytoxan, followed by a stem cell transplant. It was brutal. I grew weak. I battled intestinal infections. And help arrived. Friends sent cards and gifts. My daughters and husband stood vigil. My community held me when my strength gave out.

This year, the myeloma came roaring back. I’ve fractured two more ribs. My sternum has cracked. And now, I find myself submitting to yet another round of intensive treatment. But this time, I’m doing it differently.

I don’t want to be strong. I want to be real. Cancer is relentless. It is painful. Side effects are limiting. And I don’t want to suffer in silence.

I’m cultivating a new kind of strength, not the kind that powers through, but the kind that asks and receives. I am learning to ask for help, to advocate for myself, to tell the truth, to say no, to shamelessly weep.

I’m no longer walking this path with Sarah B. breathing down my neck. I’m walking with those who love me and welcome the full, glorious range of my humanity.

And so, on this Mother’s Day, I honor not just the sacrifices of the women who came before me, but the freedom to live differently.

If you inherited the legacy of quiet suffering, or some other legacy that no longer serves you:

What would it mean to refuse the bequest?

And what might become possible if you did?