Generational Gaslighting

Every family has a rug that hides what no one wants to face. Secrets, betrayals, abuse—swept under until the rug bulges like a landmine. We call it “keeping the peace.” But what looks like peace is really generational gaslighting: convincing each new child that the pile of pain beneath their feet doesn’t exist, or isn’t worth mentioning.

Gaslighting is often described as manipulation—making someone question their own memory or sense of reality. Generational gaslighting adds another layer: it insists that silence is respect, that acceptance is strength, and that revisiting harm is unnecessary because “we all turned out fine.” It tells you not to name what happened, because naming it threatens the family’s version of the truth.

I’ve seen it play out in real time. A young woman shared how her upbringing left scars—how choices made by the adults around her shaped her in painful ways. Instead of listening, the elder she confided in pivoted the conversation: “Well, when I was coming up, we had it worse. And I dealt with it differently.” Her pain was invalidated not because it wasn’t real, but because it didn’t fit the elder’s definition of survival.

This is what makes generational gaslighting so insidious. It’s not about open cruelty, but about comparisons and dismissals. It turns trauma into a competition, as if choosing silence or endurance earns you “browny points,” while speaking truth is weakness or disrespect. It convinces people that because they never addressed their monsters, they did it right. That delusion—that lie—gets passed down like an heirloom.

There are no rewards for swallowing trauma whole. There’s no medal for pretending it never happened. And there’s no peace in silence—only delay. The pain waits, festers, and eventually resurfaces in the next generation, under yet another rug.

That’s the cycle. That’s the gaslighting.

That’s the delusion.

That’s the lie.

And it’s time to stop calling it peace.

Peace built on denial isn’t peace at all—it’s diluted chaos. And diluted chaos still stands.

If I break your plate, buying a new one doesn’t erase the break. Telling you “at least I replaced it” doesn’t erase the violation. Yet this is how families treat pain: dismiss it with a half-measure, then expect gratitude. That’s not resolution. That’s erasure.

What I deem acceptable has no bearing on the harm caused. Still, we cling to “at least I tried” as if intention outweighs impact. This is how generational gaslighting survives—not through outright denial, but through minimization.

We confuse avoidance for wisdom. We call silence strength. But keeping quiet about harm is not noble—it’s negligence dressed as peace. And the longer we hold onto that habit, the more it becomes inheritance.

We cling to this delusion because it feels safer than the truth. Take the elder, for instance—validating the young girl’s pain might have forced her to face her own closet, the regrets and skeletons she’s kept hidden.

Generational gaslighting is projection. It’s the shield people build to avoid confronting what they’ve endured, and they defend it fiercely because acknowledging someone else’s truth threatens their false haven.

But the revolution is inevitable. Evolution demands it. There must be growth, or we perish.

For now, generational gaslighting still lingers. But its days are numbered. Each generation has to choose: comfort or honesty.

Comfort is optional. Truth is not.