Many of us spend time tracing our history—through tools like Ancestry.com, DNA testing kits, or old family records. I’ve explored those avenues at various points in my life and uncovered interesting details about my lineage. Some findings sparked curiosity, others offered explanations, and some just raised more questions. Along the way, I developed theories about why certain gaps existed in the stories I hoped to learn.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself a different kind of question—one not about names, birthplaces, or heritage, but about the emotional lineage I carry. Why do I react the way I do? Why do certain emotional patterns feel embedded so deeply? Where did my traits really come from?

For much of my life, I could point to specific parts of myself and say, “Oh, that came from Dad,” or “That’s definitely Mom.” But only recently, perhaps due to age, loss, and the changing lens of time, have I begun to more deeply reflect on how these inherited traits—not just genetic, but emotional and behavioral—have shaped me.

My over-emotional, highly sensitive side? That one’s easy. I’ve always known where it came from. But as I look back now, I see that it wasn’t just emotion—it was deep empathy. I see it in my father, and in his mother too. That quiet, soulful way of feeling the world. My mom, on the other hand, was a warm and generous soul, but not nearly as emotionally expressive. I see now how her more practical nature shows up in me as the voice that sometimes grows impatient with my own sensitivity.

It’s fascinating—and at times overwhelming—to examine yourself this way. There are moments I wonder if I’d be this introspective if one or both of my parents were still here. Maybe the space their absence created is what’s made this reflection possible. I remember a few meaningful conversations with my dad—a deep thinker with the heart of a poet. I see now that the writer and dreamer in me came from him. We were awkward with each other, and maybe we were too alike in the wrong ways to fully connect. Sometimes I think we’d have gotten along better as pen pals than in person.

Thankfully, one of my brothers—who carries that same calm, thoughtful energy—remains a close and steady presence in my life. He’s been a sort of bridge back to my dad in a way I didn’t expect but deeply value.

As a middle child, I often wished I could be the only child of someone else. My parents were kind, solid people, but I always felt a little out of sync with them. They never made me feel unloved, but they did give me room to bond with the chosen “family” I found in mentors, neighbors, and friends. I imagine that must have stung, even if they never said so.

My mother—she was generous to a fault, loved hospitality, and gave freely… though now and then she’d forget she’d given something away and ask for it back (a quirk that still makes me smile). After my dad passed, I realized she was far more high-maintenance than I had ever noticed. Some of the decisions I had blamed on him were actually hers. And yet, her love was never in question.

Looking at their lives and personalities—and those of their siblings and parents—has helped me understand the origin of so much in myself. It’s made me reflect on the difference between what’s innate and what’s earned through experience. I’ve been shaped by both blood and journey, by both inheritance and growth.

There’s a certain peace that comes with recognizing the threads in your tapestry. Even the messy ones. Maybe especially those.