The Ornament That Exposed Generational Trauma

We were decorating the Christmas tree.

Just me, the dog, the ornaments, and then the knowing... You know the kind, the knowing that starts in your gut, then climbs its way up your spine like it’s searching for a place to speak.

That’s when I saw it.

A handmade ornament, shaped like a heart. The kind of thing you’d expect to find on a nostalgic mom’s tree. Made of dried white clay. Pressed with love. Hung with red ribbon.

My daughter made it when she was five, during her time at Catholic school.

It says:

“Create in me a clean heart.”

At first, I stared at the letters. They’re careful. Intentional. Written by a little girl trying very hard to get it right.

And then, it hit me.

This wasn’t just a sweet memento.

This was indoctrination.

A five-year-old child was taught to ask for a clean heart, as if the one she had was already dirty. Already flawed. Already in need of external purification.

We weren’t encouraging kindness.

We were grooming obedience.

We were teaching children to beg for internal correction before they were even old enough to question why. And we were doing it with smiles and glue sticks and classroom crafts hung like badges of holiness.

My daughter didn’t invent that phrase. It was given to her. Praised.

This wasn’t art. It was a ritual of compliance.

And I missed it.

I hung that ornament for years, thinking it was cute. Sweet. Precious.

Now I see it for what it really is:

Proof that we pass shame down dressed as virtue.

I even joked to her, “Maybe I should scratch out the ‘n’ and turn it into an ‘r’—so it says clear heart instead of clean.”

Because that’s what she really needed.

Not a clean heart.

A clear one.

Clear enough to know she was never unclean.

Clear enough to trust her own spirit.

Clear enough to say, I’m already whole.

She didn’t love the idea of altering the ornament. And honestly, neither do I.

Because now, it serves as something else.

A relic.

A clue.

A confession.

Hanging on the tree, smiling at me in the morning light, as if to say,

This is how it happens. Soft. Early. Unquestioned.

And now that I see it, it doesn’t get to slip past me again.

A Slice of Humble Pie

I used to think trauma only came from chaos. Now I know it can come from classrooms. From hymns. From quiet little crafts designed to make children distrust their own goodness. And I know now, decorating the tree and drinking my coffee, that the systems I thought were teaching love were actually teaching shame.

Now I see it for what it really is: proof that we pass generational trauma down dressed as virtue.

Reflection

What messages did you receive as a child about being “good”? Were you taught that your heart was already broken, already wrong, already in need of fixing? When you look back now, can you trace those messages to anything that seemed loving at the time?

Affirmation

I am no longer available for inherited shame, no matter how softly it was delivered. I choose clarity over cleanliness, truth over obedience, and wholeness over purity.

Thank you for reading. If this stirred something in you and you’d like to spend more time with this work, you can explore The Humble Pie 12 Steps and learn more about how I support people as a trauma recovery coach.