Can we heal from centuries of collective trauma?

I watched it unfold again last week. I had to deal with a personal situation where someone had disregarded my emotions, my thoughts, the way I feel. After doing so, they expected ME to apologize to them. Their passive aggressiveness was real, and they could not even see it. Instead, they became the victim, and I was left spiraling.

This is Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome (PTSS) manifesting in real time, in real people, in our real communities.

Dr. Joy DeGruy gave us language for what we have felt in our bones for generations; Post Traumatic Stress/Slave Syndrome, the enduring psychological impact of slavery that continues to ripple through African Caribbean communities today. It’s not just about what happened centuries ago; those wounds never properly healed. They have been passed down like family heirlooms we never wanted.

When I sit with community members, friends, and acquaintances, they share their stories, and I see the patterns clearly: the hypervigilance that keeps our shoulders perpetually tense, the vacant esteem that whispers we are not enough, the propensity for anger that erupts when we feel threatened. These are survival mechanisms our ancestors developed to navigate a world that saw them as less than human.

Have you ever wondered why trust comes so hard in our communities? Why we sometimes build walls so high, even we can’t see over them? Why the simplest disagreement can trigger a response that feels disproportionate to the moment? These are echoes of survival strategies that once kept our ancestors alive.

I have seen PTSS manifest in the vacant esteem that makes brilliant, beautiful friends question their worth. I have witnessed it in the anger that simmers beneath the surface, erupting at unexpected moments. I have felt it in the racist socialization that makes us sometimes turn against ourselves and each other. These are collective wounds.

The research confirms what we have experienced firsthand. African/Caribbean communities show distinct patterns of trauma response compared to other populations. Our trauma exposure differs: more environmental toxins, spousal abuse, and for Caribbean immigrants, the additional layers of migration and displacement. Our symptoms manifest uniquely: more unpleasant dreams, memory gaps, and generational differences in how we seek help.

What breaks my heart is how often these trauma responses get misdiagnosed as personality disorders. The hypervigilance that once protected our ancestors from violence gets labeled as paranoia. The emotional dysregulation that developed in response to constant threat gets called borderline. The mistrust that kept our people safe gets diagnosed as antisocial.

At times, I feel that as a community we are broken. Then I rationalize; we are responding to centuries of collective trauma. Here is what gives me hope: recognition is the first step toward healing. When we understand that our struggles are not solely individual, but part of a larger pattern, we can begin to address the root causes. We can stop asking “What’s wrong with me?” and start asking “What happened to us?” 

Healing begins with acknowledgment: of our history, of our pain, of our resilience. It continues with education, learning about PTSS and how it manifests in our lives. It requires culturally competent therapy that understands them in context. It demands community support systems that remind us we are not alone. Most importantly, healing requires us to address the systemic racism that continues to inflict new wounds while keeping old ones open. We cannot heal in the same environments that make us sick.

I have seen transformation happen when people understand their behaviours through the lens of PTSS. Suddenly, there is compassion where there was self-judgment. There is understanding where there was confusion. There is hope where there was despair.

This is not an excuse to stay stuck in victimhood. It’s about honouring our survival by breaking cycles that no longer serve us. It’s about recognizing our resilience while acknowledging our wounds. It’s about understanding that healing is intergenerational. When we heal ourselves, we heal generations past and future. We honour the ancestors who survived unimaginable horrors by creating new possibilities for those who come after us. We transform pain into power, trauma into triumph.

What would it look like to heal from centuries of collective trauma? To break free from patterns that no longer serve us? To create new narratives rooted in thriving?