The Inheritance of Enough
Uncle Don, Mom, Aunt Jean, Aunt Nancy and Aunt Sandy (not sure where Uncle Herb was) circa 1943
The Inheritance of Enough
Moving past the transaction of achievement to the freedom of unconditional worth
Tall, mottled trees outside Henry Hall were swaying with color. I remember looking out the window, talking to my Godmother on the phone. Floating on the wind, the playful leaves were aiming for the ground on that chilly, Ohio day. The day my maternal grandmother, Grandma Hazel, passed away. An oversized Hiram College sweatshirt hid my hands as I twirled the phone cord.
I didn’t know Grandmother Hazel very well because she lived in Arizona and California for most of my life and I was still in Pennsylvania. I did know, however, that there was an expectation of exceptional achievement from mom’s side of the family. My Godmother made sure that I was aware of the legacy of excellence behind me and the implicit expectation to carry it forward.
“Did you know that your cousin (by marriage) was Harold Crist? He invented the Jeep.”
“Your cousins used to ride horses with the Kennedy’s.”
“Grandma Hazel went to finishing school. Her family was wealthy (they were in the oil business).”
“Did you know the house your Mom lived in (Bliss Farm) used to belong to the Mellon family?" (of the Carnegie-Mellon fame)
“Did you know that your mom and Aunt Jean (her twin) set a world record when they were 14-years -old as the youngest female pilots?”
And so on.
Grandma Hazel's high school graduation photo circa 1920
This was followed up by, “So, what are you going to do?” At that point, I was considering going into medicine. I loved biology and chemistry. Plus that following summer I became a research assistant for a cardiology group in Columbus. This was talking material that made my Godmother puff up.
The next time I spent time with her was 2 years later after my mother passed away during my spring break at Hiram in my junior year. Mom’s three remaining sisters were at my house for Mom’s post-funeral family gathering. My Godmother and I had another chat.
“So are you still pre-med?” she inquired.
I had to break it to her that I never made it past the ground squirrel operation in psychobiology. I almost passed out as I was sawing off the top of my little rodent’s skull then extracting a sizable chunk of his brain. He was alive and twitching and it was at that moment I realized my empathy was too visceral. I didn’t feel that I could be responsible for the life or death of another human. In that psychobiology lab, I felt like I wasn’t good enough for a career in cardiology. I felt like I was failing the Krahes and the Killmeyers, the Mellons and the Kennedys, and the world-record-setting twins. I was the one who had finally broken the chain of excellence. So, I switched gears and shared my heart.
“So you’re still going to med school to be a psychiatrist, right?”
“No. I’m going to be a counselor.”
“You should be a clinical psychologist. They make more money.”
“No. I don’t want to just diagnose. I want to be a counselor. Psychologists don’t really do counseling so much.”
“Well counselors don’t make any money. How about a social worker?”
“No. I want to be a counselor.”
“But you graduated top of your class, didn’t you?”
“No. Third.” Mind you, she also attended the same private all-girls prep school and reminded me that she was the student body president. Surely, a Villa girl’s potential would be wasted without her doctorate. I was doing very well at Hiram, I assured her - academically, socially, taking on leadership roles and lots of jobs. But from then on, no matter what I accomplished, throughout the course of my entire adult life, I have been reminded of how “successful” my cousins were (are) in her eyes.
Elite National Leadership honor society that includes Hillary Clinton, Sheryl Crow, and Peyton Manning
My family's response? Crickets
“You know your cousin is a judge…. Your other cousin is a world-famous architect… Your other cousin owns a castle in Kalamazoo… Your cousin in Virginia was at Jimmy Carter’s funeral… Your cousin… “ (I am German-American Catholic. I have TONS of cousins and my family is generations deep in Pennsylvania.) Oh yeah, and, “Did you know you’re a daughter of the American Revolution?” That was a gift. I hadn’t merited that one. I was “special by association” which must have sprinkled some gold into my bones. Molten gold that hardened via reverse ancestral alchemy into lead. I was imbued with a weight that I never asked to carry.
My grandmother Kathryn was the only daughter in her family who didn't become a nun (Erie, PA Circa 1924)
The legacy burden was compounded because my father’s side of the family also had some claims to fame. If you share my maiden name, you’re somehow related to me. There are so many Krahes in Erie that our family is well known – the judge, the police officer, the industrial psychologist, the surgeon, the priests, the nuns... and so on. The silent expectation of intergenerational perfectionism on both sides of my family came with a legacy burden: to be important you had to do something spectacular, socially awe provoking – a feat worthy of accolades.
I chose a different path.
Shame can be an inheritance passed through generations under the guise of excellence and high standards. This legacy burden of intergenerational perfectionism creates a family environment where personal worth is entirely dependent on achievement and the absence of any visible flaw. Children learn early on that their value is tied to their performance rather than their existence.
I have a distinct memory of running to my house from the school bus one day. My report card was nearly perfect. I couldn’t wait for my father to come home so that I could show him what a fantastic job I did.
“Is that the best you could do?” he asked, unimpressed. My heart detached from my body and melted onto the floor. I think the lesson that Dad was trying to teach me was that grades weren’t the test of a good job; it was one’s effort that should be lauded. But since the honest truth was no, it wasn't my best. Although my grades were all A’s, they were not all A pluses. What my little brain heard was that if the result wasn’t absolute perfection, the effort didn’t count. I wasn’t good enough because I could have done better. For the next decade, I was driven to push myself as hard as I could to be better. And it paid off.
Graduation from Hiram College with a B.A. in Psychology, June 1993
It was in the same living room, my bare feet on the same wool carpet, sitting on the edge of the same gold couch where my little elementary school hands gave Dad that manila envelope with the report card from St. George’s. There in that living room is where I handed my father a thick, white embossed acceptance letter from SUNY Albany. I was one of ten applicants out of a pool of over 500 who were accepted into the number 2 graduate school in the nation for counseling. Using the green ledger paper and number two pencils in his mind, without any emotion, my father replied, “So how are you going to pay for it?” There was no congratulations. No expression of pride. It was a practical query from my accountant father that stole my second in a private spotlight of achievement. The bullseye of my father’s pride was yet again missed.
Kids like me inherit a set of rigid expectations that were forced upon by our parents and grandparents (and aunts) in the past. This cycle transforms a natural human desire for growth into a desperate struggle to avoid the stinging bite of failure. Because that standard is impossible to maintain, you feel trapped in a constant state of feeling insufficient. The weight of unmet expectations that did not even belong to me crushed the impact of that perceived failure into my heart. I could never seem to be good enough.
Bob and I and Peter's Koala Bear on the cross country road trip from Ohio to California (March 2002)
Part of my healing involved moving away from the oppression of this family legacy to California, where, ironically enough, my Godmother lived less than an hour away. Breaking that cycle of perfectionism meant reinventing myself. It took courage to acknowledge that my pursuit of perfection was actually a running away from my fear of being seen as ordinary and simple. Once I stopped running and faced it, I began to define my worth outside the narrow limits of my family’s pride and public performance. I started to become authentically me.
My Enumclaw office - I'm thankful to say that every day I am sincerely thrilled about going to work!
My Legacy = My Choice
Yesterday my laptop nestled itself into my brown, leather satchel next to my pink, spiral bound schedule book and an opened package of Doublemint gum. As I walked around my office to turn off the four lamps, I caught myself basking in a smile. It had been a good day.
No.
It had been a really good day.
I cannot share the specifics of what I do. My light must remain under a bushel of confidentiality so I can’t show you, per se. I cannot show you a mansion, but I can show you a waste basket full of used Kleenexes, each one wiping tears from pain falling out of humans. I may not be able to introduce you to a presidential family, but I can show you how the air in the room feels energized after a family trapped in resentment and strife turns a corner into much needed forgiveness and reconnection. My legacy isn't a castle in Kalamazoo or a bloated bank account in Switzerland. It's not in the hum of a Jeep, but in the sound of a bridge-jumper finally putting their keys in the ignition and driving home. My accolades are the silent, healing heartbeats of people who thought they were beyond broken. My feat is the unnoticed absence of a tragedy. It's the invisible work of trying to help hold a world together, one conversation at a time.
I am blessed with a calling to be genuinely present with people in their most vulnerable and tender moments. I am thankful to learn how the open conversations in my office have healing trickle-down effects, how children feel loved, that spouses start communicating, and that distraught people walk away from permanent solutions to temporary problems. Inner children who were abused find rest in the sanctuary of my empathy, care and validation. This work is my silent legacy.
After I locked up, I slowly meandered down the street admiring the Cascades and the spring sky. It was a beautiful day of blossoms and blooms in the Pacific Northwest, miles and miles away from Pennsylvania. In a town where no one knows my maiden name and the shadow-legacy of overachieving perfectionism that follows me.
I carefully hoisted myself up on the cracked running board of my 2004 F-150 (not a Jeep) and placed my satchel next to me. I didn’t pick my career because of the money or the prestige. My career picked me because of my servant’s heart. I get to decide the value of that. And, to me, there is value in my humble profession. Chasing perfect isn’t something I do anymore.
Last night, I dragged my tired 54-year-old bag of bones up the sixteen stairs to my master bedroom. Although it was a good day at the office, transparently, it has been an exhausting season. I swapped out my work clothes for my favorite blue plaid nightgown (the flannel one that goes all the way to the floor a la Little House on the Prairie). The tired in my eyes was heavy. The shine of some new silver grays on the top of my thinning hair caught my attention in the mirror. So did the glistening of a silver granny whisker on my chin, doggone it. Irritated, I plucked it out, called it a sassy name, and pitched it into the waste basket. Minty froth was spat into the sink. Walking clothes poised on the counter in anticipation. Meds for old people were tossed down with a blue bubble glass of cool water. Alarm was enthusiastically (hahahahaha!) set for 5:00am. Thankful and tired, I slipped myself under my too-many covers under the heavy weighted blanket in my too-big bed. Lights. Out.
And I prayed myself to sleep.
“Thank you, Lord, for another day to give love. Thank you for these weathered hands that held a widow’s hand today in solidarity. Thank you, Lord, for the silver hair because it (and those new sexy forehead wrinkles) gave me street cred with those millennial parents. Thank you, Lord, for the F-150, my faithful companion who gets me around just fine. Thank you for the new furnace and hot water tank, for enough food in the fridge, and for a front door that locks. Please hold all of us in your arms tonight and keep us safe. Please let us all feel the unconditionality of Your perfect love, as you have made us beautifully imperfect. Oh, and Lord, if you see fit, can you please let some more hair grow on the top of my head? I saw what was under Grandma Hazel’s wig and I didn’t ask for that legacy either. Amen.”
April 10, 2026