![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmNn9FAme2FaaHoww8qLneJVPCi3UpHdYAZqvqB2MTxyxX/1755290004063.jpg)


You know that feeling That quiet hum in your bones when you step into a place  thick with your history, I felt it last weekend as I was digging through an old trunk in my grandma’s attic. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight and the scent of cedar and faded fabric wrapped around me like a worn blanket Inside of a tucked beside sepia toned photos of people whose names I barely recall it was her mortar and pestle Heavy Smooth from generations of pounding yam.

Holding it I didn't just feel the weight of stone I felt the weight of all the hands that came before mine, The hands that fed families celebrated harvests mourned losses and That’s **roots**. Tangible grounding sometimes even a little burdensome when  They anchor you They whisper, *"This is where you come from these rhythms these tastes these quiet strengths are yours."*

For a long time I though and I think I misunderstood those roots I saw them as chains tying me to expectations I didn't feel equipped to meet them as Traditions felt like dusty exhibits in a museum fascinating to observe but intimidating to touch, How could my modern messy life ever measure up to the resilience etched in that old mortar I loved the stories the warmth of family gatherings filled with laughter and the unmistakable aroma of jollof rice but I struggled to see where I fit into that long unbroken line.

*Image created by META AI*