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Heirloom Histories: What We Keep, What We Sow
- RJ Starr
- Jul 3
- 4 min read
“We live forward, but we understand backward.” — Søren Kierkegaard
When Garden Spices Magazine invited me to contribute to its 11th-anniversary issue—themed "History"—I knew exactly what I wanted to explore: the quiet, often invisible histories we carry. Not the kind etched in textbooks or national archives, but the kind that lives in our posture, our rituals, our fears, and our instincts. The kind that hums beneath the surface of everyday life.
History isn’t only war, politics, and revolution. It’s inheritance. It’s the texture of our gestures, the way we dress without realizing it’s a tribute, the way we hold sorrow in our bodies before we can name its source. History lives in the spaces between generations—what gets passed down, what gets buried, and what we choose to replant.
It’s been seven years since I last wrote for Garden Spices. Since then, I’ve earned a Ph.D., started another, authored books, launched a podcast, and built a platform around the psychology of human behavior. But this invitation called me back to something more foundational—something closer to the root. It reminded me that history isn’t just geopolitical—it’s deeply personal. It’s not only preserved in monuments and archives. It lives in lullabies, in habits, in the pauses between words. It lives in us.
For me, history has always had rhythm. My most vivid inheritance is a memory of dancing with my grandmother. Nanny was once a vaudeville performer, traveling from army bases to dusty stages, lifting people’s spirits through music and motion. That rhythm never left her. When I was a child, we danced together in her living room—not to impress or perform, but to be. She’d hum a tune, and I would follow. There were no lessons, no instructions. Just presence. Just music as memory made real.
Our last dance was in the summer of 1996. But I still carry it. What I inherited wasn’t just her love of music—it was her way of connecting. Of creating intimacy through movement. Of letting the body say what the mouth couldn’t. That, too, is history. Not handed down in a will, but imprinted through touch, tone, and timing—a felt memory that surfaces when words fall short.
The same is true for the men in my family. Both my grandfathers dressed with precision—always pressed slacks, perfectly angled hats, and an air of quiet dignity. As a child, I didn’t fully grasp what their clothes were saying, but I felt it. I understood, without being told, that there was power in presentation. That care signaled value. Now, decades later, I carry that history with me—not out of formality, but as homage. My aesthetic isn’t a costume; it’s a continuation. It’s not about fashion—it’s about respect. About communicating worth without saying a word.
Some heirlooms are tangible. But many aren’t. Some are instincts: the way we tilt our chin, the way we withhold or offer touch, the stories we absorb about what it means to be strong, to be valuable, to be lovable. And as a psychology professor, I see how often these patterns emerge in my students. The anxiety that didn’t come from nowhere. The perfectionism that runs in the bloodline. The inherited belief that love must be earned. These aren’t random—they’re rehearsed. Passed down like family recipes, just without the notecards.
But the most liberating thing I can teach—about psychology or history—is this: inheritance is not obligation. Yes, we are shaped by what came before. But we are not bound to repeat it.
Every family hands down patterns. Some are beautiful: resilience, creativity, faith, humor. And some are heavy: denial, silence, judgment, shame. We absorb them long before we have language for them. But we also get to decide what we carry forward. To interrupt the script is not betrayal—it’s restoration. It’s agency.
Breaking a generational cycle doesn’t mean dishonoring your lineage. It means choosing what gets to continue. It means asking hard, generous questions: Does this serve me? Does this belong in the next chapter? When we parent differently, speak more openly, apologize more freely, or simply allow ourselves to feel—really feel—we aren’t erasing the past. We’re editing it. We’re making space in the soil of the garden for something new to take root.
And that, to me, is legacy. Not a set of instructions, but a capacity. A psychological toolset that says: thoughts aren’t commands. Pain isn’t destiny. You can honor your story without being trapped by it.
What I want to pass on is not a relic—it’s a resource. The ability to pause. To trace the origin of a fear or belief. To hold it up to the light and ask, Does this still need to live here? That’s history work. That’s healing work. And it’s as spiritual as it is psychological.
Writing this brought me full circle—not just back to Garden Spices, with its spirit of culture and connection, but back to myself. Back to the rhythm of Nanny’s voice, still echoing somewhere beneath my ribcage. History isn’t a burden or a blueprint. It’s a current. And we are always swimming in it; sometimes with resistance, sometimes with grace, always with the possibility of direction.
So here’s to what we choose to keep.
Here’s to what we’re brave enough to release.
And here’s to the gardens we tend—within ourselves, and with each other.
About the Author:
RJ Starr is a psychology educator, author, and host of The Psychology of Us, a podcast exploring emotional insight and human behavior. His work focuses on how personal and cultural histories shape the way we think, relate, and grow. Learn more at profRJstarr.com.
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