A Two-Way Street

I always feel a little uncomfortable when someone says, “I love you”—especially when the relationship isn’t deeply rooted.

Sometimes I want to say, “Thank you—I appreciate it—but I’ve always seen love as a two-way street.” Instead, I smile and reply politely, “Love you too,” even if part of me feels like I disappeared for a moment—just to make sure they wouldn’t.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: saying “I love you” doesn’t mend a wound that was never acknowledged. And for many of us, that wound happened long ago—and never really left. It just shifted shape, echoing changes in family, society, and self.

What many people call “love” often isn’t love at all. It’s a substitute—an emotional crutch. Not because they’re weak, but because when it mattered most, love wasn’t there in the way they deserved.

And worst of all, they might not even know it. That’s relational trauma—rooted in transgenerational silence—a trauma of its own.

In my family, rocking the boat felt dangerous. And over time, the boat just got bigger. You know what happens to big boats—they have a hard time getting around icebergs.

For us, the iceberg hit when I was about nine. My father’s business—the one he co-owned with my mother, started by my grandfather, William, was struck by lightning and burned to the ground.

"An act of God," some would say. My dad kept asking, "Why me?" I never knew how to answer that question. But somehow I felt responsible—and never knew why. That feeling still rises when I see someone in pain.

Titanic was a great movie. But just when Jack thought he had it all—finally in first class—the ship sank, along with him and all his dreams. It reminded me of us. I felt powerless and couldn’t say a word.

When I began learning more about love, I used to recommend Women Who Love Too Much. Many found it helpful. But I never felt it gave men a fair shake. Some men love too much, as well, though it often looks like narcissism.

They are also wounded children—never taught to feel, let alone express. Told that “real men” don’t cry, don’t talk, don’t feel. It’s hard to see yourself clearly when the trauma taught you to close your eyes—and that opening them could have dire consequences.

These days, I usually recommend The Body Keeps the Score and call it a day. Brilliant book, but it leans a bit heavy on the brain. The whole story lives deeper than that, even though the author seems to know that. But you have to remember, the author is a man who has been through a lot of trauma and may also be looking for someone to listen to him.

Sometimes I look at the couple in the old wooden figurines on my shelf and wonder how they handled things when their love was out of balance. They were my blood—my grandparents and their parents—who lived in a shtetl in what we once called The Old Country.

Places like Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, and parts of Russia—as well as Belarus and Romania. Lands weathered by poverty, persecution, and the fierce will to survive. They faced daily icebergs—religious oppression without warning.

Sadly, I didn’t have much time with them. But I remember my great-grandmother—my mom's grandmother—whom we all lovingly called Bobo. I didn't even know her name was Sarah back then. She spoke Yiddish and barely heard, but I always felt like she understood me—no words needed. Every time I saw her, she brought me a little tshatshke—a trinket, or an old piece of candy.

Ironically, we played War—the card game, not the real thing. She loved it. I loved her. But I don’t remember ever saying it.

I saw her love—in her smile, her laugh, the deep lines in her hands. In her eyes—hollowed and wise. Her rounded back, as if it remembered every silence she had to bear—and still offered love in return. She didn’t need words. Her eyes told me the story—sorrow, love, and something more—determination and hope.

Somehow, I knew she had lived through the war. She had witnessed more than anyone should ever have to, yet she survived—so I could hear her story, and so I could carry it forward in words never spoken.

I held on tight every time she said goodbye, never knowing if I’d see her again. I wonder if she felt that way too—if each goodbye reminded her of others she never got to say and of the feelings she held inside.

When I sit with a patient now, thoughts of Bobo often come to mind. I think of all those I couldn’t hold or be held by in my own life—those who never made the journey for reasons I’ll never fully know. It helps me understand their pain—the loss, the abandonment—as well as my patient’s pain, and my own.

Papa Aaron, my dad's father, was also one who died when I was very young. Remarkably, I have a distinct memory of seeing him when I was only one and a half years old. It's just an image—me waiting with my brother while our parents visited. And then seeing him from afar in a wheelchair, with tubes in his throat—in the lobby of a big cancer hospital.

Years later, I was told he was a tailor, a hard worker with a hard life—and that I looked like him. I wish we had more time. I wish I could have at least held him and looked into his eyes—instead of just taking in his fear.

That’s part of my trauma—inheriting the emotional burdens of others and the fear of death, with its deepest roots. It expanded across generations and deepened when my older brother died, shortly before his 57th birthday. He still wasn't the youngest—one of my mother’s brothers—the firstborn of both her parents, died at 52—a man who looked like a specimen of health. But his face and eyes couldn't hide the deep pain within. Somehow, I felt he could see what I was carrying too—the responsibility we both bore, even though neither of us was the oldest.

Away at college at the time, I never had a chance to say goodbye. His sudden death reminded me of how my mother carried that same fear since she was a teenager, when she almost died of rheumatic fever. Along with a chronic heart condition, the fear never left her, and it transferred to me. I became one of her biggest sources of support as I was the only one who listened and understood.

When I told my mom I was going to graduate school to become a psychologist, she was very proud of me and said, “It’s in the blood.” She’d been told one of our ancestors was a healer, known and respected in his community. I felt like she was confirming my purpose and responsibility to save her as well as others—something I felt was my purpose, along with being a burden.

She did express that this type of job would be very demanding, and wondered how I’d be able to cope. All I could say was, “I had good practice.” She just nodded her head and looked sad. There were no words.

These wooden figures I grew up with—they’re more than keepsakes. They’re symbols of love that endured, despite all the pain in our lives left unspoken. When things get hard, they remind me to keep holding the light—for myself, not just for others.

As we do this sacred work, it feels like the light guides us below the surface, into the wounds we covered just to survive. I think of how many of my ancestors weathered storms for those who couldn’t—through unshakable love and courage. With faith, they faced their icebergs and rebuilt in a land that promised freedom.

They didn’t have therapy. But they had each other—family, community, core values. Love was there, just enough to survive. Enough to build a home—not just shelter, but belonging—a home inside themselves.

It wasn’t perfect. But my father rebuilt his business. I helped him, even before I was old enough to be on the books. And I finally felt like he could hear my voice. Back then, we didn’t disappear into screens or self-medicate. We put our heads down and worked.

We worked it out the best we could—not always realizing the pain we were dealing with and the price we were going to pay later. I ate donuts with my friends on Yom Kippur, a holy day of atonement when fasting was the rule. My parents spoke in Yiddish when they didn’t want us to see the shame they learned to hide—and that we inherited.

There was still hiding—but sometimes, hiding is part of healing. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t come from cleaning up the mess right away, like I learned to do growing up. It comes from making the mess and then making time for a correction.

Not by seeking revenge, but by refusing to scapegoat or punish others. By not turning away from the vulnerable—the children, the elders, the wounded. That’s a betrayal. My family didn’t just survive. We endured. Through depression, war, illness, and division—we kept going. We were always there for each other—day or night—to pick one another up when we fell.

I wish I could have heard more of their stories. But now, thank God, I can still tell them. I feel them in my bones—especially in my foot, healing slowly and surely from surgery, with only 32 more non-weight-bearing days to go.

I say to all those listening that it’s not my responsibility to fix or save them. They have the strength to save themselves.

And when my foot throbs, I feel the pain throbbing everywhere—among people being told they don’t belong, taken away in broad daylight, like my ancestors, by masked men in silence.

It sickens me to write about this now. But I can still speak my truth: Healing doesn’t come from someone telling us they can save the world. It doesn't come from labeling others to make us feel fearful and make themselves look more powerful. It comes from looking at ourselves in the mirror. It comes from looking someone in the eyes and asking what hurts. That’s how we survive trauma. That’s how we heal.

Not by raising the Titanic in vengeance, but by letting it rise in our memory—as a reminder of what it means to be human. What it means to forgive—starting with ourselves.

Right now, I’m just looking for the next moment when life is good. Even though I know the most important thing isn’t feeling good—it’s being real. It’s telling the truth when someone says they love you and claims to have all the answers.

Sometimes, the truest response to pain is honesty. No sugar-coating. No silver lining. Just—fuck you, life is hard. And love isn’t a bandage. It’s a mirror. A two-way street.

You can’t just wait for others to see you. You have to see yourself first.

That’s where I want to live—in the light of my Bubbe and Zayde, my grandparents and the other great ones who came before them—each one held in my heart, so I can shine that light on you, and help you find it within yourself.

So I whisper: Mir zaynen do—we are here. I might be out walking. Or working with someone who needs my attention. But I’m still here. I’m paying attention to me—my health—physical and emotional. I have a lot to live for. I still have more to learn. And more to teach. I’ll take every second I’m given.

To all who read this, I ask: Where do you want to live? How are my words helping or making it hard? And, how can you help yourself?

Yeah, it’s a lot to think about. It takes time. As the wise ones taught us and many therapists say, "The slower you go, the faster you will get there." But sometimes you need a good guide to help you stay on the right path. Sometimes we carry the pain without knowing why. And still—it shapes the way we love and the way we heal.

But there is hope and light out of what was once invisible.

To my sweet 7-year-old granddaughter, Annie, who is wiser than her years, I say once again: “You are right. Life is a mystery. But it’s also a journey—and we’re on it together. Even if you can’t see me, you will always live in my heart.”

I’m back home with my Bubbe (Bobo) and Zayde. We’re here now, and we live on a two-way street in Vermont. Feel free to wave or stop to chat if you see me on the road.

The elders don’t get out much anymore, but they are always with me in heart.

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.