When the Family Tree Loses a Limb or Two
Family trees are funny things. Some branches are sturdy, full of stories, recipes, and clan pride. Others are splintered or missing altogether, like someone forgot to water them for a few generations. My tree is a mix of both: part well-documented, part mystery novel.
On my dad’s side, the story is tidy. The Boyces held their threads tight. We’re Scottish on my Dad’s paternal side and we are Dutch on the maternal line, these lines are clean, plain and simple and the receipts are all there, from our Original migration into the Northern Highlands, then later to Northern Ireland and then again to North America (Canada to Colorado specifically). My Scottish side is alive and present, well-documented and celebrated. Leaning into it is as easy as flipping through the family albums, generational cookbooks and even attending the Boyce family reunions that continue to this day.
But my mom’s side? That’s where we 've been uprooted a bit. She has Norwegian roots only one generation away, my mom is a first generation American. It should be easy to access, but family trauma cut the line. I never met my grandfather, and with him went the stories, the songs, the food, the roots.
So I grew up with these Nordic-sounding names, cousins and uncles that look like Nords out of the story books but no idea how to connect myself to the traditions and cultures because no one wanted to talk about it. So, being my creative self, I fabricated. I fantasized. I imagined my ancestors on wooden boats, sitting around firelit rituals, and windswept cliffs. I invent my maternal ancestors as the Vikings from the movies, stories and art that I explored. I saw the women as mystical seers, brewing herbs and lifting heavy ass shields and wanted to be that.
It’s funny, yes. But it’s also a little heartbreaking. Because the truth is, those lineages are the closest and clearest in blood… and yet the most elusive in spirit.
Here’s what happens when your ancestry is part crystal-clear and fantasy land fog:
There is an upside…
You get to flex your imagination.
The longing itself becomes a teacher, pushing you deeper into the search.
Mystery keeps you humble. It reminds you not everything is knowable, and maybe it’s not supposed to be.
For balance, the downsides..
You start patching together lineages with duct tape, Google searches, and every book you can get your hands on.
You feel unmoored, one foot solid in Scottish territory, the other slipping around on imagined Nordic ice.
And trauma, when left untended, doesn’t just vanish. Silence in one generation becomes distortion in the next.
For me, this distortion shows up as a kind of ancestral imbalance. I lean hard on my Scottish roots, because they’re sure, they are solid, rich and celebratory. Meanwhile, the Nordic side is a locked room I press my ear against, catching only whispers, wishing to be let in.
This is why I’m drawn to programs like Ancestral Rituals of Belonging, created by Tova and Swathy. They remind me that ancestral work isn’t about perfect archives, intact family cookbooks, or knowing the exact shade of your clan tartan. It’s about relationship.
Their approach is trauma-informed, which means they know some family trees are missing whole limbs. They don’t ask you to pretend the branches are intact. Instead, they show you how to:
Approach your ancestors with safety and reverence, even if you don’t know their names.
Let the silence be part of the ritual, without forcing it into story.
Rebuild trust with the “wise and well” dead, even when trauma or fracture cuts through the line.
It’s a relief, really. Because it means I don’t have to keep inventing my maternal side as Viking fanfiction to feel connected. I can let them be who they are, as they are and still step into relationship.
If any of this resonates, if you’ve felt the sting of silence in your family lines, or the ache of wanting to belong more deeply than records and recipes allow then this opportunity is for you!
That’s why I’ll be stepping into Ancestral Rituals of Belonging with Tova and Swathy this September. Because belonging isn’t a luxury it’s innate. And sometimes, to claim it, we need a circle, we need guidance.