"Word 4 Word" by Moneybagg Yo (2021) I remember the first time I heard that line. My husband was blasting Word 4 Word in our living room, and I was doing what I always did - yelling at him to turn it down. But something made me stop mid-sentence. Little did I know, that through the bass and the beats, those words would later hit me like a punch to the chest. At first, I took it for what it was. Just another hard-hitting track filled with street wisdom. The usual reminders to stay ready, trust no one, and always keep your eyes open. It's the language of survival, passed down not through gentle stories, but through warnings, instincts, and lived experience. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But later that night, when the house had settled into silence and everything around me was still, those lyrics kept replaying in my mind. Not just as words, but as something deeper. Something inherited. I reached for my phone and opened YouTube. The song was still there in the wat...
"Word 4 Word" by Moneybagg Yo (2021)
I remember the first time I heard that line. My husband was blasting Word 4 Word in our living room, and I was doing what I always did - yelling at him to turn it down. But something made me stop mid-sentence.
Little did I know, that through the bass and the beats, those words would later hit me like a punch to the chest.
At first, I took it for what it was. Just another hard-hitting track filled with street wisdom. The usual reminders to stay ready, trust no one, and always keep your eyes open. It's the language of survival, passed down not through gentle stories, but through warnings, instincts, and lived experience. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
But later that night, when the house had settled into silence and everything around me was still, those lyrics kept replaying in my mind. Not just as words, but as something deeper. Something inherited.
I reached for my phone and opened YouTube. The song was still there in the watch history, like it had been waiting for me to hear it again. I pressed play, put in my headphones, and let the music pour into the quiet.
It was a Moneybagg Yo track. One I already liked for its raw honesty. But this time, as I listened, something shifted. The song wasn’t just relatable anymore. It felt personal. As if those lyrics were speaking from a place that reached far beyond my own experience. A place that stretched back through time and memory.
I started to feel the weight behind the words. The kind of weight that doesn’t just belong to you, but to everyone who came before. The burden of always having to stay guarded. The burden of learning to protect your heart and your back before you ever learn how to trust. That’s the legacy of generational trauma. It sneaks into your life quietly, disguised as personality, attitude, or even strength.
In that moment, I realized this song wasn’t just about the present. It was a reflection of the past. Of pain and survival and strength passed down like a family heirloom. And it hit me hard.
Some of us are not just healing from what happened to us. We’re trying to unlearn everything that was taught to keep us safe, even when it came at the cost of our peace.
We’re not just surviving. We’re breaking cycles we never asked to be born into.
In my family, emotions were something you buried, not something you expressed. Nobody ever had to say "we don’t cry here." You just learned. Quick.
Tears made people uncomfortable. Sadness was seen as weakness. And if you dared to show your feelings, you paid for it.
I remember the first time I cried in front of someone in my family. It wasn’t anything major, just a moment when the world felt a little too heavy for me to carry. But instead of comfort, I got laughter. Teasing. "Cry baby." "Too sensitive." "Man up."
And just like that, I learned the rules. Keep your chin up. Tuck your feelings in. Hide your softness behind a tough shell.
It didn’t matter that I felt deeply, that I hurt quietly, or that sometimes I just needed to be seen. In that world, vulnerability wasn’t brave. It was something to be mocked. So I started wearing masks. I smiled when I was sad. I joked when I wanted to scream. And I tucked every tear away like it was a secret I should be ashamed of.
Over time, I confused silence with strength.
But looking back, I know now that hiding my heart didn’t protect me. It just disconnected me from myself. It took years to realize that emotion isn’t weakness. It’s human. It’s power. It’s real.
And now I’m learning to feel without apology. To cry without shame. Because strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about knowing you can and still choosing to rise.
Conclusion
Music has a way of cutting through noise, sometimes even the kind we carry inside. That night, what started as a casual listen turned into a moment of clarity. I was reminded that trauma doesn’t always show up as pain, it often hides in our habits, our fears, and the armor we wear without thinking.
But recognizing it is the first step. When we start to see the patterns for what they are, we give ourselves a chance to rewrite them. Maybe that’s what healing looks like, not forgetting where we come from, but choosing a different path forward, even if it’s just one lyric at a time.
If this spoke to you, you’re not alone. Keep listening. Keep feeling. Keep healing.
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