Inherited traits are not limited to physical characteristics. Gestures, facial expressions, even preferred coping mechanisms pass from generation to generation. Spend one hour with my mother and I, and this fact is startlingly obvious. The exclamations of relatives at family reunions and clerks in department stores constantly remind us of the eery resemblance. I begin to fear that I am the product of an act even worse than sexual intercourse — the cloning endeavor of a galactic cult. But the resemblance that alarms me so greatly stems not from appearance. Any physical similarity stops at our curly hair, slightly nasal voice, and crinkling, expressive eyes. Our behavioral and psychological parallels go much deeper.

To say that Mom and I are nervous creatures would be the understatement of the millennium. Prone to hand-wringing, stomach aches, panic attacks, and extremely low pain tolerance, our fragility rivals that of the most delicate “hot-house flower.” The psychiatric and medical community struggles to keep track of our many ailments. Mother-daughter freaks of science, we share a nervous twitch in the very same location on our back; we alone know the annoyance and pain of the “itchy-spot.” How my father lives with two female, shiksa Woody Allens, so vocal in their every worry and complaint, I do not know. He deserves a purple heart for his endless patience, waging a constant battle for our well-being.

I lack his character. After reassuring her, for the third time, that “No, you aren’t dying of Alzheimer’s or Multiple Sclerosis or Ebola,” I grow annoyed of mom’s worries and resentful of my own inheritance. My inner voice whines, “Why couldn’t she have passed on optimism, vocal skills, or a tiny waist?” I mourn for sixteen years filled with energy-consuming anxiety, seconds, minutes, hours wasted on hand-washing and lock-checking. My nerves cry out indignantly, blaming Mom for their frazzled state. After all, she was my most important model of appropriate female adulthood; I had no choice but to follow her example! I picture myself in the womb, a tiny fetus absorbing the pulsing, negative vibes of her partum panic attacks. Suddenly, I see the genuine terror in her face, and guilt washes over me as I realize the selfishness of my anger. Mom knows the agony of perpetual fear and worry; she would never intentionally give me the curse. Like mine, the foundations of Mom’s shaky mental health were laid in childhood. The legacy of anxiety that I struggle to escape did not begin with my mother.

The title “grandma” is ridiculously incompatible with my Mom’s mom; her dyed red hair, bright outfits, and bony body hardly warrant such a warm, matronly word. As an infant, my older brother cooed “Gra!” and fashioned for her a more fitting title. While Mom and I fret about ourselves, Gra dwells on anxiety of a different ilk. She directs her concerns at others; more specifically, her imperfect and thus imperiled family members. In my healthy, not-thin-enough weight, she predicts a future filled with rejection and ostracism. In my family’s lower-middle-class status, she sees deprivation and destitution. She calls frequently, to “check up,” but I feel our conversations only distress her more. Panic-induced heart palpitations recently sent her to the hospital.

Mom was and is the primary target of Gra’s worries. As a child, she witnessed Gra’s external perfection and internal turmoil. As a teen, she buffeted the storm of Gra’s constant “suggestions.” Gra unintentionally schooled Mom in the fine art of anxiety and self-criticism. Now, she still desperately seeks to improve us. With a furrowed brow, she sizes up our tiny house. She offhandedly comments on my mother’s weight, “subtly” conveying her concern.

Mom calmly explains that weight gain is natural and inevitable at her pre-menopausal age, and that she has bought new pants anyway. Gra pleads with her to save her “skinny” clothes, because “you might lose weight!” Mom shrugs and smiles complacently. But when Gra leaves, Mom painfully expresses her renewed feelings of anxiety, pinching and kneading her belly in front of the armoire mirror.

I can’t help but compare their exchanges with the ones I have with mom. Thankfully, I am able to contrast the two mother-daughter relationships, rather than compare them. While Gra inadvertently worsens her daughter’s anxiety, Mom does nothing but try to alleviate my worries. She drove me home from school when I had panic attacks in third grade; today, she rubs my shoulders when I have difficulty breathing, and reassures me about the future. I, in turn, listen intently to her perceived maladies, and then calmly diagnose her with an overactive imagination. Family got us into this mess, but family can certainly get us out. If and when I have daughters (my brother tends to be overly apathetic, not overanxious), I will ensure they never inherit the legacy of anxiety.