All my life, I was told I was severely allergic to eggs. No eggs in the house. Ever.
At 21, I accidentally ate something with mayo and rushed to the ER, panicking. After tests, the doctor looked stunned.
“You’re not allergic. Not even a little.”
Three more tests confirmed it.
I felt relief, confusion, and deep betrayal. My parents didn’t even pick me up. I rode the bus home, holding the discharge papers, wondering: why lie?
When I confronted my mom, she admitted I choked on French toast at age two. My dad panicked and blamed the eggs. She just went along with it.
But the truth ran deeper.
Later, my great-aunt told me about Rafa—my dad’s younger brother who died choking on a hard-boiled egg. My dad never got over it. When I choked, it triggered his trauma.
I was raised in fear, not malice. Still, fear passed down becomes its own kind of harm.
Now, I eat eggs freely—and ask questions bravely.
What we inherit isn’t always genetics. Sometimes it’s grief. And sometimes, healing starts with asking: Is this really true?
