Has the war within families not ended?

World War II ended more than 80 years ago.

For most of us, it’s history—the dates in textbooks, old photos, documentaries, and memories shared by the few people still alive who can recount them.

For our parents and grandparents, however, this was not history—it was life itself. It was a time when people disappeared, families fell apart, homes were left empty, and tomorrow was by no means a given.

And although the war ended, its impact may not have ended on the very same day.

Think, for example, of a completely ordinary Estonian family.

My grandfather’s father went off to war and never returned. Perhaps he was killed, perhaps he went missing, or perhaps a message simply reached home saying that he was no longer with us. His son, who was still a child at the time, had to grow up without a father and learn quite early on that in life, you can’t always count on someone to come and help.

He grew up to be a man who could always get things done.

A man who worked hard, shouldered responsibilities, and took care of his family, but for whom feelings were something that wasn’t really talked about. He may not have been cold or uncaring—on the contrary, he may have loved his family very deeply—but the language of his love may have been work, his presence, and making sure the fridge was full and the bills were paid.

When a child came to her with a worry, her answer might have been simple: “It’ll pass.”

When the child cried, he said, “Be strong.”

When he was having a hard time, he didn't talk about it. Because perhaps he had never been taught how to do so.

Her mother, who had lost her husband during the war, had to raise her children and shoulder the burden of life all at once—a situation that left her little room for weakness. She had to do hard labor, later endure life on the collective farm, care for her children, and somehow carry on, even when she was filled with grief for which there was neither time nor space.

What would have happened if one day he had simply said, “I can’t take it anymore”?

Who would have raised the children?

Who would have done the work?

Who would have brought food for the family?

So he had to manage.

And perhaps this ability to get things done became one of his family's unspoken values.

We always manage.

We aren't complaining.

We don't burden others.

We're moving forward.

These were probably very necessary rules at a time when survival was at stake.

But what happens when rules created for survival are passed down to a generation for whom survival is no longer a daily concern?

What happens when a grandchild actually has a safe home, a loving partner, and the opportunity to ask for help, yet deep down feels that they have to do everything on their own?

Or what if taking a break makes you feel guilty?

Or does relying on others seem dangerous in some way?

Or what if closeness is both deeply desired and terrifying at the same time?

Or what if a person notices that the same pattern keeps repeating itself in their relationships, even though they seem to be consciously doing everything in their power to avoid repeating the lives of their parents or grandparents?

This is where the family's story gets interesting.

Because we don’t just inherit our eye color, last name, or Grandma’s recipes from our family. We also grow up with the stories that are told—and the stories that are left untold. We learn from our parents how to love, how to argue, how to make up, how to cope with loss, and what to do when life gets really hard.

Sometimes we also learn that certain feelings aren't discussed.

Because a man has to be strong.

A woman has to hold on.

We shouldn't burden others with our worries.

Because the most important thing is to keep moving forward.

And a child who grows up in such an environment may never know why they do things the way they do. To them, it’s not “Grandma’s wartime experience” or “Grandpa’s childhood trauma.” To them, it’s simply life.

That's just how we are in our family.

In the constellation approach, a person is viewed as part of a larger family system, and attention is paid to how difficult events and unresolved issues from previous generations may be linked to recurring patterns and internal struggles in the present. Particular emphasis is placed on significant events that affect the family, such as war, premature death, emigration, violence, or other major losses.

One key concept in this perspective is subconscious loyalty—a feeling or inner pattern through which a person may, as it were, remain faithful to their family’s story, repeating certain patterns or carrying on a burden that may not actually belong to their own life.

That doesn't mean we should now start looking for someone to blame—our grandmother or grandfather—for every problem we have.

On the contrary.

Perhaps the most important question is whether we can look at our family’s story with compassion.

What did my grandmother have to go through to become the kind of person who never allowed herself to be weak?

What must my grandfather have gone through that led him to keep his feelings to himself?

What did love mean to them at a time when survival was the most important thing?

And what does love mean to me now that I no longer have to struggle to survive in the same way?

These questions may change the way we view our parents and grandparents.

We may discover that the person we thought was cold when we were children simply didn’t know any other way to love. We may see that our grandmother’s constant worrying wasn’t simply “her personality,” but part of a world where loss could strike at any moment. We may come to understand that our grandfather’s silence didn’t necessarily mean a lack of feelings, but may have been a way he learned to cope from a very early age.

And perhaps something new will emerge from this understanding.

We are not born onto a blank page; we come from families that have their own history, their own losses, their own secrets, their own ways of loving, and their own stories.