Resting a mind that carries a complicated legacy
My rest journey didn’t initially begin with burnout, motherhood, or a moment of enlightenment. It started with my father.
If you knew him, you knew he had a presence. A type of bigness that filled any room. He was magnetic, funny, unpredictable, loyal in a way that didn’t always make sense, and often chaotic in ways that would take me years to decipher.
And now that he’s passed away, I find myself returning to the beginning…
What does it mean to rest when your origins are complex?
What does it mean to care for your mental health when the person who shaped you lived at the edge of his?
This is how I’m learning to stay grounded while carrying the legacy of a man who was both unforgettable and unfinished.
The Inheritance we don’t speak about
We talk a lot about generational trauma and cycles, but not as often about the specific emotional imprint our parents leave behind or the energy we absorb long before we have words for it.
My father had a brilliance to him.
He also carried unspoken storms.
Growing up, I learned that love could be big, bold, and inconsistent…and that sometimes the people who give the most are holding the most inside. It took me years to identify these patterns as mental health struggles.
His passing forced me into a new kind of rest:
The rest of reckoning with where I come from.
One of acknowledging that I inherited his humor, his loyalty, his intensity; but also the patterns he never learned to grapple with.
When mental health is part of your origin story
I used to wonder, “Does growing up with a parent who struggled emotionally mean I’m destined to struggle too?”
But rest has taught me something life-changing…There is a difference between inheriting tendencies and inheriting destiny.
My journey has taught me to pay attention to my nervous system. Understanding that consistent regulation isn’t the goal but healthy management of peaks and valleys.
I learned to sit with my emotions rather than rush past them.
I learned boundaries — something my father rarely practiced.
And I learned that rest is not simply the absence of work; it is the presence of safety.
Mental health is woven directly into rest.
When you come from someone whose mind was constantly fighting its own battles, rest becomes a rebellion, a reclamation, a way of saying:
”I choose peace even if I was not raised in it.”
The Gift I received In Spite of…
For everything he struggled with, my dad had this ability — this rare gift — to show up for people.
He didn’t believe in inconvenience.
He had a deep commitment or duty to show up for those less fortunate. It was his escape.
And I’ve realized that
Even his chaos taught me something.
It taught me to value steadiness.
It taught me to build the stability I didn’t always see.
It taught me to create a life where rest is the foundation and not an afterthought.
I’ve learned strategies to navigate my peaks and valleys that honors healing over chaos.
This is his gift living through me.
So now I do the following whether I’m managing a painful loss, empathizing with those in my community that are struggling, or feeling the weight of my load in motherhood:
Check in with my nervous system as a practice of rhythm not performance
Check in with my inner child — Is this me or an inherited pattern?
Allow myself to feel with drowning. My tether is often my community and gratitude.
And finally, honoring the traits I choose to keep; his humor, his loyalty, his boldness…not his chaos.
Rest is how I stay connected to him without losing myself.
If you’re reading this and you’ve Lost someone complicated
Know this. You don’t have to choose between grieving and protecting your mind.
You don’t have to carry what broke them. And you don’t have to become what you’ve witnessed.
You’re allowed to rest. Allowed to be different. Allowed to inherit only the light you choose.
Rest can be the bridge, the healer, and the way we avoid repeating negative stories. It can facilitate the rewrite.
For anyone grieving someone they’re still trying to understand or trying to stay mentally anchored while carrying a complicated legacy, know that rest can be your guide.
Resting through grief
Grief has a way of reopening old rooms.
But rest gives me permission to walk through them slowly. I’m learning to honor my father with softness.
Grounded and present but not shameful.
Rest helped me say:
”Dad, I’ll take the best of you. The Rest ends with me.”