Inherited Silence: An Unspoken Mother-Daughter-Bond

When my mom developed early dementia, I had no idea that years later I would come to recognize another kind of loss—the loss of the mother I had known. While she was gradually losing her memories, I was quietly losing her, too. It was another loss that entered my life almost unnoticed.

To this day, I don’t know how long she was aware of her memory fading and kept it a secret. She was a master at disguising. She had an incredible ability to turn everything into something positive or beautiful. She never spoke ill of anyone, was always ready to help, and I never heard her complain. She admired beauty, although she never saw herself as beautiful. I barely saw her being sad, seldom angry, and never frustrated or depressed. Everyone loved her and spoke highly about her.

One of her favorite sayings was, “Alles ist gut! Wir machen einfach weiter so!, which translates to “All is well… let’s just keep going” — I remember that most of the time, when I opened my heart to her and asked for advice, she would simply say the above sentence and when it was a really devastating or hopeless problem she would add on, “I will pray for you.” Even in my 30s, I remember feeling disappointed when that was the end of the conversation—especially when I had gathered the courage to share something that truly weighed on me. She was comfortable speaking about light, cheerful things, but when deeper or more difficult emotions arose, it felt as if she gently turned away from them.

So I learned to move through life’s hardships mostly on my own. I wasn’t inclined to open up—to a counsellor, a friend, or even a partner. After all, if I couldn’t fully turn to my own mother—my only parent since I was 13—who could I turn to?

Looking back, I have to face a difficult truth: I never had a mother who spoke with me in depth about the things that truly mattered. She couldn’t speak about her own fears, her past, or her inner world. She lived very much in the present, and I give her credit for that. She trusted deeply that God would take care of everything. The past was something to be left behind, and the future something not to worry about. And in many ways, this gave me a sense of freedom. It taught me how to keep going.

When the signs of dementia became more visible, I began asking her questions—as this was my last hope to keep her brain engaged. I asked about her childhood, her favorite memories, her life. What she began to share picture of a largely harmonious upbringing, with only faint traces of sadness and fear—barely visible, like something far in the distance. 

It wasn’t until five years after her passing that I began to discover the missing pieces of my childhood puzzle, slowly fitting together emotions I had never fully understood, where they came from. I wanted to uncover my patterns, my inner resistance to just keeping going in the illusion that everything was well.

I started to question her story. A woman born in 1937 in Austria, the fifth child of a mother who had lost her first husband to war… a mother raising her children largely on her own, later remarrying a man she did not love, but who was considered kind. A man who then also went to war—and never returned.

My mother grew up surrounded by loss, instability, and unspoken pain. She was, without question, strong. A fighter. A believer.

After reading Emotional Inheritance by psychiatrist Dr. Galit Atlas, I began to see my mother differently. Her unwavering positivity was not just a personality trait—it was a survival strategy, she got passed on already from her own mother. Something she had learned from her own mother. A way to endure turmoil and uncertainty.

As her memory faded, something shifted. Perhaps as her subconscious began to loosen its grip on old wounds, she became more open. More real. More emotionally available.

For the first time, I felt that mother-daughter-bond between us. I could truly see her, understand her, and be with her—present in the moment. As it turned out, that was all we had left—until death would part us. As I allowed myself to become vulnerable again, she met me there—in a way she hadn’t before; she could finally open her heart as well.

Today, in my counselling and trauma support sessions, I integrate what my mother taught me subconsciously. Inspired by the work of Dr. Atlas, I invite my clients to gently look back—one or even two generations—to explore the emotional patterns we inherit. Because often, what we carry is not only our own story. And in bringing awareness to it, we begin to loosen its hold—and create space for something new. 

Something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something real.