Ancestral Heartache

What is Ancestral Heartache and can you ache for someone else—even someone on the other side—to the point where your heart physically feels like it’s breaking?

I believe the answer is yes.

You may remember the Grey’s Anatomy episode where a woman goes to the hospital on the same day each year after the man she loved passed away. Her body physically relives the heartbreak. The grief is no longer just emotional—it becomes embodied.

That story has stayed with me because I have experienced something similar.

For the last four days, I have had chest pain, aching in my neck, and discomfort primarily on the left side of my body (often associated with feminine or receptive energy). It has been accompanied by restriction with deep inhalation and elevated blood pressure. In many cases, these symptoms could signal a cardiac event or other medical concern—and that must always be taken seriously.

This is why it is imperative to know your body and seek medical care when needed.

But it is also important to know your history—your personal story and your ancestry. No physician or healer knows your internal experience better than you do. And who else carries knowledge of your soul’s history? The ancestors whose DNA lives in your body.

There is a well-known book, The Body Keeps the Score by Dr. Bessel van der Kolk. It explores how trauma is stored in the body. I believe this doesn’t apply only to our own lived trauma, but also to inherited patterns passed through generations—including through the maternal line and the reproductive egg.

I carry my own wounds: childhood trauma, two marriages, miscarriages, leaving a cult, military service, the death of loved ones. But I also carry the unresolved emotional patterns of those who came before me.

Have you ever wondered why rates of anxiety and depression seem so high in our generation? Despite modern technology and medical advancement, we appear to carry immense stress. Perhaps part of it is cumulative—layered, inherited, unprocessed.

As a child, I was frequently sick. I often felt weighed down by energies and emotions I couldn’t explain. Fifteen years ago, during my first pregnancy that resulted in a live birth, I developed high diastolic blood pressure that never resolved postpartum. Medication either failed to lower it or caused intolerable side effects.

Six years ago, nine months after the birth of my second son—a high-risk pregnancy—I experienced a severe episode. My resting heart rate was 150 beats per minute for ten days. With minimal movement or even raising my voice, it would spike above 200. I lost ten pounds rapidly and felt like I was constantly running a marathon.

At the time, I was not in a safe emotional space with my partner or parents. I did not feel supported. I attempted to drive myself to the emergency room but only made it four miles before calling an ambulance—something that was deeply humbling. I had once worked as a paramedic and was now a registered nurse. The embarrassment I felt—that I could not take care of myself—was profound. That, too, was a wound.

In the ambulance I was given nitroglycerin, oxygen, and other medications to lower my heart rate and blood pressure. Nothing worked. The medics told me I had them stumped.

I was hospitalized for three days. Telemetry, cardiac testing, high-dose medications—none of it changed my vitals. My father, who worked in cardiology, came to sit with me and speak to the cardiologists, even though I had not wanted him there. The partner I needed did not come. In hindsight, I see how those dynamics activated deep wounds of abandonment and childhood stress.

I was discharged with no answers, only a heart monitor and follow-up appointments. Ultimately, no cause was identified. No explanation was given for why medications had no effect.

A nurse had gently asked me during that hospitalization, “Do you think this could be psychosocial?”

At the time, I was offended. I did not have a diagnosed mental illness. I was strong. Athletic. Resilient. I had endured so much. I misunderstood what she meant.

It wasn’t until years later—after beginning meditation, returning to yoga, setting boundaries, reconnecting with music (which had always been my refuge), and stepping into energy healing work—that I began to understand. Psychosocial does not mean imaginary. It means the body and psyche are connected.

When I began addressing stored emotional stress, my symptoms improved.

Do episodes of heartache still happen? Yes.
Will they ever be 100% gone? I don’t know.

My intuition tells me healing is ongoing. We evolve. Therefore, we continue healing.

I have traced some branches of my ancestry back to the year 990. Yet there are always more branches to uncover. And there are still difficult days simply because we are human.

The purpose of this writing is awareness.

Become aware of your body’s responses.
Become aware of your emotional triggers.
Strip away the titles—woman, mother, father, nurse, healer, son, daughter.

Who are you beneath the roles?
How does your body respond to stress, grief, seasons, anniversaries?
How might your history influence that response?

You are the primary steward of your healing. Doctors, therapists, and healers are guides. They support. But you live in your body. You interpret its language.

Recently, I realized we are approaching the holiday season—a time historically marked by suppression of both Indigenous traditions and Pagan practices. The holidays also hold personal childhood wounds for me. My body recognizes these anniversaries even when my mind tries to move past them.

The chest ache resurfaced.

Now, instead of panicking, I pause. I assess. I seek medical care when appropriate. And I also listen.

I went into my apothecary. I grounded myself. I asked internally what support my body needed. I selected herbs known for calming the nervous system and supporting the heart. I blended tea intentionally. I rested.

For me, this combination—medical awareness, emotional accountability, spiritual reflection, and herbal support—creates balance.

Healing ancestral patterns does not mean bypassing medicine. It means integrating awareness. It means choosing not to unconsciously pass forward what we inherited.

This path found me. I did not go searching for it. But I am honored to walk it—to tend to the past and create space for healthier generations ahead.

Love & Magic to you all.

This is a personal blog and is not medical advice. Always consult your healthcare provider regarding any health concerns.