Carrying the Shadows: Surviving What Wasn’t Mine

By Jerry Elman, July 30, 2025

On June 16th, I shared an article talking about my darkest times as a second-generation Holocaust survivor. For the first time, I opened up publicly about the depression, emotional weight, suicidal thoughts and trauma that had silently shaped my entire life. The response was powerful—deeply human. I heard from others like me, carrying inherited pain they had no words for. That first article was about acknowledging the truth. This time, I’m writing about what I live with and what I’m doing about it.

I’ve started something I never thought I’d be able to do: the journey to find out who I really am.

I’ve begun trauma-informed therapy at age 71. It’s terrifying. It’s freeing. It’s long overdue. And even if I have fewer years ahead of me than behind me, I want those years to finally be mine—to live as my real self, whoever that turns out to be.

The Symptoms That Lived in Me Since I Was a Teen

I can trace it back to around the age of 13, though I think the roots go even deeper. That was when my physical symptoms began to make themselves known, quietly at first, then more insistently:

• An almost constant headache that didn’t respond to anything
• A strange nerve pain in my scalp and hair that no doctor could explain
• Mental fog, like I was always slightly underwater
• Trouble processing conversations and thoughts quickly
• Feeling tired even when I hadn’t done anything
• A heaviness in my chest, like I couldn’t take a full breath
• Difficulty focusing—being scolded for not paying attention or seeming like I didn’t care
• An inability to be “present” in a conversation—people thought I was rude or aloof
• A sense of detachment from my body, like I was living on autopilot

Every single morning, I still wake up with all of these symptoms. Before I do anything else, I lie in bed—not because I’m avoiding the day, but because I need that time to prepare myself. I mentally walk through what I need to do just to get up and start moving. I work to silence the symptoms the best I can. It takes a tremendous amount of energy just to do that first thing in the morning. But I’ve learned how to do it—how to quiet the pain enough to function. It’s a bit like people who live near railroad tracks and eventually stop hearing the trains. The pain never goes away. I’ve just gotten used to ignoring the noise.

But there was something even deeper happening. My emotions—especially sadness, shame, and a constant questioning of my own self-worth—didn’t just sit quietly. They pressed against me like a weight I couldn’t lift. I felt small, undeserving, and often invisible. It didn’t matter how much I achieved or how hard I worked; there was always a part of me that didn’t believe I was enough. At times, I would “check out” mentally, just to survive the moment. People around me thought I was being defiant, disinterested, or difficult. But I wasn’t. I was trying not to drown.

Even in the moments when I seemed okay—when I functioned well at school, when I played the role of the responsible kid or later the dependable adult—there was a part of me hiding. A part that never felt whole. A part that was terrified to come out.

How I Survived the Pain

For most of my life, I didn’t seek help. I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know I needed to. In the world I grew up in, you didn’t talk about your feelings—especially not as a boy, and certainly not as the child of Holocaust survivors. Our job was to survive, to be grateful, to not make trouble.

So I did what I had to do. I numbed myself. I powered through. I performed roles I thought people expected of me. I worked. I built a life. I pushed the pain down. And I smiled when I was supposed to. Just like Holocaust survivors did. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone—I was trying to function. Trying to make it through. And like so many of them, I believed that if I could keep going, keep moving, keep building, maybe the pain would stay buried.

My biggest coping mechanism—what helped me survive more than anything else—was tuning things out. That was how I protected myself. That was how I stayed focused, how I blocked out triggers. When people said things or behaved in ways that reminded me—consciously or not—of pain, control, rejection, or danger, I shut them out. I withdrew internally. I didn’t choose to do that. It just happened. It was instinct. And it worked.

But it came at a cost. To this day, I get criticized—especially by those closest to me—for seeming detached or distracted. For not listening. For not reacting. They don’t understand that it’s not deliberate. I’m not ignoring them to be rude or uncaring. It’s a survival tool I’ve leaned on my entire life. It was either tune things out—or be overwhelmed by them.

At the same time, there’s another deeply rooted trigger that has followed me into adulthood: bullying. People who were bullies—or who behave with arrogance, cruelty, or domination—have always shaken me to my core. It doesn’t even have to be directed at me. If I see someone else being treated unfairly, belittled, or manipulated, I feel a surge of something that won’t let me stay silent. I fight back. I speak out. I defend. Even when it costs me. Even when it creates conflict. Because in those moments, I’m not just seeing a situation—I’m seeing every injustice I never got to name. I’m standing up not only for the person in front of me, but for the child inside me who never felt protected. And yes, I’ve been called too intense. Too sensitive. Too reactive. But I know what it’s like when cruelty goes unchallenged. I can’t unsee it. I won’t let it happen without a voice.

I’ve dealt with bullies in my career many times—often in the form of bosses. I pushed back. I challenged them. I knew bosses almost always win, but I made sure they were called out. That mattered to me. Once, a bullying temple president—who was also my boss—crossed a line I couldn’t tolerate. I stopped pushing. I walked out of the building and never returned. She won that battle—on paper, and at the cost of my reputation there. But I’ve never regretted it. At least I stood up and made it clear I saw exactly what she was doing—while most others looked the other way. Standing up to bullies hurt my career, and it destroyed my faith in organized religion. But I never sold myself out. Selling myself out was never part of my survival.

Even now, knowing all this about myself, it’s still hard to undo. But I’m starting to notice. I’m starting to feel what’s underneath. And maybe, for the first time, I’m learning I don’t have to disappear—or be silent—to survive.

My Clinical Assessment

Only recently—after years of struggling in silence—did I seek a full clinical assessment. The findings were both validating and heartbreaking. I have complex PTSD (C-PTSD), rooted in developmental trauma and compounded by intergenerational trauma inherited from my parents’ Holocaust experiences.

My symptoms are classic for second-generation survivors. They include:

• Chronic anxiety and hypervigilance
• Emotional numbing
• A persistent sense of shame and guilt
• Difficulties with identity and self-worth
• Nightmares and disrupted sleep
• Physical symptoms linked to trauma (including the mysterious pain I’ve had for decades)

The assessment also confirmed what I’ve always suspected: I didn’t just have episodes of depression. I was living inside a depressive state for most of my life. And it wasn’t due to weakness or negativity—it was a normal human response to abnormal, unspoken pain.

The Path Forward

The recommendation was clear: trauma-informed therapy—not just to “treat” symptoms, but to finally understand the story I’ve been living. To learn how my nervous system adapted to survive. To process the grief of a stolen childhood and a hidden self.

I’ve just started. I don’t know yet what it will bring up, or how deep it will go. But I’ve committed to being open—to finally walking into the parts of myself I’ve avoided for decades. I’ve started noticing when I disappear emotionally—and slowly, I’m trying to come back.

Every morning still starts the same: with all the symptoms. The pain, the fog, the weight. I lie in bed and gather myself before I move. I do the mental work I’ve done for decades to quiet the noise and push through the pain, just to get to the first step of the day. For years, that was my only goal—just to function. To go unnoticed. To make it through. To do the things I had to do.

But now, I want something more than just survival. I want to stop silencing everything and start listening—to my body, my memories, my emotions, and the parts of myself I buried long ago. I want to live without constantly managing the noise inside me. I want to know who I really am, not just who I became in order to cope.

My therapist has reminded me: healing doesn’t mean forgetting or pretending. It means reclaiming. Naming what hurt. Understanding what it did to me. And giving myself permission to grow into the person I was never allowed to be.

A New Chapter

Since publishing Miracles Through Hell—my parents’ Holocaust survival story—many people have encouraged me to follow it with a memoir about me: how I developed, how I coped, and how I’ve survived in a different way than my parents. I resisted for a long time. But I’ve come to realize they were right.

So I’ve started creating an outline of a new book. A deeply personal one. I’ve begun the writing process. I don’t know exactly where it will take me—whether it will be viable or even a story worth sharing. We will see.

To anyone who has suffered from trauma, in any form: you are not broken. You are not alone. Your story matters—even the parts you’ve never been able to say out loud. Healing doesn’t come from fixing yourself—it begins when you finally see yourself. All of you. Even the parts that had to hide.

People can be cruel—especially to people like us. The ones who live with pain. The ones who fight just to make it through each day. The ones still trying to figure out who we really are. The truth is, most people don’t even know who they are. Maybe that’s why they’re mean. Why they lack empathy.

But there are people who care. They’re just harder to find. Sometimes, it only takes one. One person who sees us, hears us, and doesn’t turn away. One real friend can change everything. The many bad ones? They just tear us down.

Let’s start living—not just surviving. Together.

And if you see yourself in my story, I hope you’ll reach out. I’d love to hear from others who’ve walked this path too. You’re not alone. Neither am I.

If you’re in the Rochester, NY area, I’d love to get a small group together—just to meet, talk, and share. Nothing formal. Just real conversation with people who understand.
You can reach me directly at: jerry.elman@jerry-elman.com