To All the Chandeliers

A letter to the women who were taught to shine, but never to land.

By Alexa Waldmann, LCSW

You were so beautiful.

You still are.

You dazzled us. You hung in every room, lighting it up with your charm, your laughter, your effort. You turned pain into polish. Disappointment into dinner parties. Fear into lipstick and witty stories.

You were told early — maybe not in words, but in expectations — that being loved meant being admired.

So you made yourself magnetic.

You learned how to walk into a room and hold attention like a gift.

You curled your hair. You kept your weight down. You gave the best presents.

You stayed light, even when it cost you depth.

And I see now that it wasn’t about vanity.

It was about survival.

You were raised in houses that praised beauty but punished need.

Where being too emotional was shameful, but being impressive was safe.

You didn’t get a soft place to land, so you suspended yourself from the ceiling and called it strength.

This is the shape my intergenerational trauma took.

A lineage of women who passed down performance in place of presence.

It didn’t start with me — but I am doing the work to make sure it doesn’t keep going through me.

Because here's the thing:

You never learned how to stay when the feelings got big.

You never learned how to say, “I see your pain, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You only learned how to reflect. To shine. To move the light away from the shadows.

And so when your daughters came to you — needing more than sparkle — you didn’t know what to do.

We cried, and you froze.

We needed, and you changed the subject.

We tried to land in your arms, and we slipped through.

We know you loved us.

We know you tried.

But admiration isn’t the same as attunement.

Gifts aren’t the same as presence.

And praise isn’t the same as being held.

So here’s what I want to say now, from the fire I’m building on the ground:

We are no longer asking you to change.

We are no longer begging to be seen in the way you never learned how to see.

We’re learning to see ourselves.

To hold each other.

To build warmth instead of wattage.

We love you. We honor what you survived.

But we will not become you.

We are not chandeliers.

We are fires.

And we are raising children who won’t have to shine to be safe.

Who won’t have to shrink their sadness into silence.

Who won’t have to choose between being real and being loved.

So thank you for your shimmer.

And goodbye to the ceiling.

We’re on the ground now.

And it’s warm here.

I am no longer hanging from the ceiling. I am here, on the ground. I am the fire now.

The chandelier reflects. The fire reveals.

For anyone doing the work to become the fire — I see you. Keep going. It’s warm here.