This article is coming straight from my heart.
When the internal call to delve into my Prussian lineage emerged three months ago, I soon felt more and more resistance to it. Resistance to a thing is a clue that a cavern of pain is getting poked, causing the ego to struggle to keep the cavern closed, causing avoidance of the thing.
And I hadn't felt that much resistance in a long time. It felt urgent and huge.
I knew why, too. I'd bought two books on Prussia; one about the province my family used to live in, the other about Prussian history.
Both activated immense grief within the first few pages—something I didn't expect because, as a teen, I'd had great interest in Prussia already. But with how disembodied and conditioned to self-rejection I was back then, I couldn't touch what I personally had to do with that history.
That it was my history.
I didn't have the required emotional maturity either, honestly.
In the first book, I found direct references to my upbringing, the names of villages and cities in the stories my grandparents told me, accounts of people who lived in or traveled across East Prussia before the wars.
The author listed common surnames in one chapter, including those of my family. My grandma's grandpa, a house painter, is mentioned by name for his work in Königsberg.
Images of people, streets, town squares, houses, villages.
Descriptions of nature. The plentitude of lakes, forests and swamplands—something I'd felt an inexplicable attraction to as a young child, but there were no swamps where I grew up, which saddened me deeply.
Details on the climate. The years of heavy rains and droughts and ruined crops. That East Prussia didn't have one, but "eight" winters of different attributes. The floods when people used boats to reach their farms. How the tough environment had them cherish life and joy and humor, diligent in both their work and leisure. A "Chop wood, carry water" type of simplicity.
The many idioms and words I've been hearing my whole life nowhere but in my family because they stem from the East Prussian dialect. Marjell. Zagel. Was schadt' dir? Deiwel. Flunsch. Seeing such expressions in a book for the first time melted something very old in me.
I wasn't the only one who knew and used them. In fact, there'd been 2.5 million of us.
High German wouldn't even be my native dialect if Prussia never got destroyed.
Tentatively, and then all at once, I touched the fact that not only my whole life would've been completely different, but my grandparents' and parents', too. Millions of Prussians' lives would be completely different.
Speech. Education. Cultural heritage. A sense of national belonging and identity. No generational war trauma and abuse. No loss of homeland and homestead. No death of family members as they fled the war and got ill. No rapes by allied soldiers.
My country would've still celebrated its achievements in public, the way it used to be in the early 1900s. Patriotism wouldn't be shunned, but our flag and the Prussian eagle displayed everywhere. Portraits of Frederick the Great and the German Kaisers would hang in every classroom, honoring their accomplishments and our shared history. Prussian virtues would still be honored. (All those German traits like efficiency and punctuality? Yeah, those are actually Prussian.)
We would know who we are.
We would all have access to that profound, unshakable love that lives inside every born Prussian. The love for our home. For our culture. For ourselves.
It's been buried. Deliberately.
In the first page of his book about Prussia called "Iron Kingdom", Christopher Clarke quotes Churchill: "The heart of Germany beats in Prussia."
That's when the past 78 years of history all made sense to me.
That's when I understood why I didn't even know Prussia had existed until middle school.
That's when the full scope of indoctrinated, cultural self-hatred hit me.
Why the national socialism era is the only part of German history you'll see on German TV.
Why Prussia isn't talked about at all.
Why they hardly show any movies about Prussian people's life.
Why no history teacher ever asked us students whose grandparents are Prussians, who comes from that lineage, who wants to share stories from that time.
Why no one ever talks about the ethnic clensing, torture, starvation, rape, witnessing siblings and parents die on their flight to safety.
Why there's no war trauma recovery help, or support, or reparations.
"They tried to kill our hearts. They tried to make us forget where we came from forever, to sewer the connection to our people and land, to turn us into self-hating puppets."
I felt myself break from clavicle to solar plexus.
I broke down wailing. These tears weren't coming from my face, but from my chest, arms, gut. It felt like cool air sweeping through those areas, a totally foreign sensation.
They'd tried to kill our hearts.
And they'd failed.
That realization followed on the spot.
They'd failed.
Because my heart had just become alive.
I remembered.
My body remembered.
And joy swept in right after the grief, as naturally as air in a convection current. One always following the other.
I smiled through the tears.
I'd never felt peace for something. My mind wondered about this for a moment. I should be angry and yell and be disgusted with what's been done to me and my people. And I am.
And I'm also at peace.
Because I'm tapped into a frequency that has a very clear trajectory. My ego has zero involvement. I don't need to push or force or demand.
Since that evening, my entire body has raised its frequency to love. The more I opened to it, the more it flowed, and love became a main theme. Online, in person. So many synchronicities over the past two months.
For example, my grandma, on a whim, bought me a necklace made of many little heart-shaped pendants. I didn't ask for or ever mentioned anything about heart-shaped trinkets. She couldn't explain why she chose such an unusual design either.
Or the pantomime (never encountered one my whole life) at the Italian restaurant who stopped by our table to fold me a heart-shaped balloon.
Or me resting at the spa, looking up at the sky and seeing a huge, heart-shaped cloud two consecutive days in a row at the same spot and time.
My online teachers talking about love, independent from one another.
But before all that, I explored that new frequency more: via music. Music's an inseparable part of my life, so naturally I wanted to listen what they listened to. Their folk songs. Their anthems. Their military parade marches.
Listening to them singlehandedly ran a path of lava from my throat to my pussy, down my arms and legs. Instant physical joy. Immediately opening my heart.
A true remembrance. A "I'm here now. I'm ready. This is me and I'm claiming this fully."
It literally hurt for a while. My sacral area glowed and expanded and delivered so much energy into the surrounding tissue, it took attention to smooth it out and not spill.
If you have no idea what that means, don't worry.
Words really can't explain the beauty I've internally experienced for the past two months. My gratitude to feel this, hold it, let it hug my whole body every day.
The Prussian anthem of 1830-40 is a literal portal. I'm sure that's why they only had it for 10 years because it's intense. The frequency woven into the lyrics and singing feels like energetically sitting up straight, knowing and standing up for the rightness of my existence, unapologetic.
It’s the same frequency that’s been at the core of my human body, the fire nothing has ever come close to extinguishing: neither the death of my twin, nor my mother’s stroke when I was 8, nor the grief I felt every single day, nor the bullying, nor the panic attacks, nor that part of me wanting death, nor confessing my feelings and being rejected, nor being ostracised during the pandemic, nothing.
“Boulder and oak may crack [from lightning strike], yet I won’t cower.”
“My colours represent that my fathers died for freedom. I’ll never shrink in fear; I’ll be daring like they were.”
“There’s been worse [storms] in the world, but the Prussians’ courage never wavered.”
“The bonds of love are strong. Hail my fatherland!”
“We won’t look back, no, [we’ll look] forward [into the future] with faith!”
“I’m a Prussian and a Prussian I shall be!”
This is the courage that’s been guiding me through the worst times. The silent strength I always hid from others because I felt undeserving of it and like it was wrong.
And from one moment to the next, I wasn’t alone feeling in it anymore. An entire nation had channeled it into their anthem.
My nation.
That song activated the parts of my body which no embodiment practice has activated in six years.
My arms, upper back, shoulder blades, the back of my ribcage and heart, left thigh and abdomen, the remaining tension in my throat.
Electricity washing through, emerging from the fascia connecting muscle and bone.
Deep deep deep.
Not at all like the superficial endorphin rush I’ve always gotten from music.
Putting on a playlist of Prussian marches opened my body even more. I realised that this kind of music doesn’t trigger my mind at all. Normally, I can’t listen to music without fantasising and creating scenarios. Done that my entire life, including instrumental pieces. But here, my mind is silent. My body receives the music. My heartbeat reaches the tips of my usually cold toes, my breathing deepens, a column of light from top to bottom.
And joy. The transmission of joy, vibrancy, and aliveness bursts through every note. My solo dance parties have entered a galactic level.
And there’s no way I could’ve held any of these sensations without years of commitment to my nervous system expansion. I remember what closeness feels like. None of this could’ve seeped in. Water on cracked soil. The snapping shut from the "too much at once”.
For me, that meant feeling embarrassment, shame, agitation.
What I did eventually feel was resistance, but I knew that was my ego fighting to keep the deeper caverns of pain and grief covered.
I also knew I had to go
very
very
slowly.
No sledgehammer.
No force.
But also no spilling everywhere like a bubbling soda can.
Holding those higher frequencies of love and peace, adding a bit more energy into my body with pussy stroking meditation (SXBMB™), and expanding wider and wider. Just a little bit each day.
That’s my current practice.
And as I sat with this frequency, I felt it want to come through me. “You don’t choose the energy, the energy chooses you,” my teacher Perri Chase once said.
My mind rebels against it.
My mind doesn’t fucking want this.
Do you have any idea how stigmatised the topic of Prussia is here? Calling myself a Prussian equals breaching an unspoken golden rule. It goes against the entire set-up of my socialisation.
It’s fucking scary.
And the energy doesn’t care.
I’m here writing this because it’s been calling me to do so for weeks.
I’m writing this because I know there are others like me. People who never knew they needed the permission to touch this topic.
To read how someone who shares their generational trauma relates to it, explores it, integrates the grief and connects to the love.
Because, sooner or later, the Prussian collective will have to face the accumulation of unfelt grief and anger.
Because we’re not even allowed to acknowledge that those emotions exist within us.
Because we’re not even aware that we exist as a collective on this planet.
But we do.
And I’m holding our pole.
It’s become so clear to me that this is part of my purpose. I’m meant to feel and integrate all of this pain in my own body, so that I can embody this specific frequency in the world.
And if you’re of Prussian lineage, and especially if you grew up in Germany, I want you to feel into these questions:
How much would you have to love yourself to say with full conviction, ‘I’m a Prussian.’?
How much self-hatred and shame do you have to face and abandon?
How many self-sabotaging patterns?
How many negative beliefs that keep you small and hiding?
How much conditioning?
Because the conditioning is strong. Your scared parts want you to cower away from saying it. It feels undeserving, even dangerous.
It’s okay. I’ll say it first.
Ich bin Preuße.
And no one can take that away from us.
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