Family Constellation Therapy

A Personal Encounter with Family Constellation Therapy

The room is quiet, yet charged. We sit in a circle—strangers by name, but not by presence. The air feels dense, as if something unspoken is preparing to rise. Not in words, but in posture, breath, and orientation.

Each segment begins with a participant selected in advance—the subject of that session’s inquiry. The facilitator, Sarah, moves through the space with calm authority. Grounded and deeply intuitive, she asks only a few questions—just enough to sketch the shape of the issue without filling in its details. Then, with practiced ease, she writes down the names of key figures—“Mother,” “Father,” “You,” “The Missing Brother,” “Unborn Child”—folds the slips of paper, and hands them to the participant.

That person, now carrying the weight of their intention, distributes the folded slips to others in the circle. No one opens them. No one knows whom they represent.

And yet—something begins to move.

One by one, the chosen participants rise and step into the center. A subtle choreography unfolds. Someone turns their back without knowing why. Another drifts toward a corner, as if drawn there by an unseen force. Breath changes. Arms tighten. Gaze averts. The room vibrates with something just beneath language.

Then Sarah gently invites the slips to be opened.

The roles are revealed—and what had been unfolding silently gains sudden clarity. A woman who had drawn into herself turns out to be “The Mother.” A man who stood motionless and distant is “The Father.” Their bodies seemed to know what their minds did not. Again and again, I was struck by how strangers so quickly embodied roles, burdens, and hidden loyalties—not as performance, but as intuitive resonance.

One scenario stayed with me—not because it was real, but because it easily could have been. And in some archetypal way, it was.

A woman comes forward. Her voice is steady, but her eyes carry a quiet weight.
“There was an abortion when I was twenty-three,” she tells Sarah. “I don’t think I ever really… faced it.”

Sarah receives her words without flinching. Her presence is unwavering—not solving, not interpreting, just holding. She writes four names: “The Woman,” “The Unborn Child,” “The Father,” “The Grandmother.” The slips are folded. The woman distributes them.

Participants begin to move.

One—a young woman—starts to rock gently. She wraps her arms protectively around her abdomen and murmurs, barely audible:
“I don’t feel like I should be here. Like… I almost was, but wasn’t.”

When the slips are opened, her role is revealed: “The Unborn Child.”

The mother gasps. Not out of shame, but recognition. Her hand rises to her heart as if catching something before it falls. She takes a slow step forward, tears cutting a path down her cheeks.

“I didn’t know how to hold you,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I was allowed to grieve.”

Sarah approaches quietly, offering a phrase—not to explain, but to honor:
“Tell her: You belong.”

The mother repeats it, voice trembling.
The child nods.

And just like that, the thread—long hidden—becomes visible. And in its seeing, something unnamed is released.

Family Constellation Therapy – A Glimpse Into the Roots

Family Constellation work was developed by Bert Hellinger, a German psychotherapist who spent time as a missionary among the Zulu people of South Africa. Influenced by their communal and spiritual worldview, as well as by elements of Gestalt therapy, existential philosophy, and systems theory, Hellinger sought a way to map the often-unseen forces that shape human behavior—especially within the family unit.

The method hinges on the idea that unresolved traumas, secrets, and exclusions from previous generations can echo across time, embedding themselves into the psyche and body of descendants. These entanglements, Hellinger proposed, disrupt what he called the “Orders of Love”—a natural system of belonging and hierarchy within the family. By externalizing these patterns in a group setting, placing “representatives” in the room to stand in for family members or forces, one may reveal hidden dynamics and—ideally—restore balance.

Over time, the method has evolved. Some facilitators remain loyal to Hellinger’s original structures; others integrate elements of somatic therapy, shamanic practice, or modern trauma-informed frameworks. It remains a deeply experiential process, impossible to fully grasp from theory alone.

👉 This short video explains Hellinger’s ‘Orders of Love’—a foundational concept in constellation work.

👉 See this video: Bert Hellinger – Being in resonance with one – Creative Force

How Family Constellation Therapy Reveals Hidden Truths

I remained mostly on the periphery throughout the four-hour session. I was chosen to represent, but had little to say. There’s a particular kind of presence required when you’re holding space: a listening that happens not just with the ears, but with the body, with breath, with restraint.

I was struck by the attunement of some participants. Their access to inner voices, to subtle shifts in feeling, seemed beyond reason. I couldn’t help but contrast this with my own disposition—more anchored in language, logic, and psychological framing. I stood mostly in silence, a witness holding space. Yet something in the holding was profoundly engaging. Even without being chosen as a representative, I felt drawn into the field, as if I were gently orbiting someone else’s gravitational pull.

Not every moment in the session felt safe. While much of the work was profound and delicately held, I found myself quietly evaluating—wondering where insight ended and projection began. No healing modality is neutral. The facilitator, the field, and the participant co-create something powerful, yes—but also vulnerable. When the unspeakable is invited into the light, the ground must be stable enough to hold it.

In one constellation, that edge became visible.

The subject was a man carrying unexplainable rage and distrust toward his sister. No memory of abuse was recalled. And yet, after listening and watching the field take shape, Sarah—the facilitator—offered a possibility with quiet steadiness:
“There may have been an inappropriate boundary. Something hidden. Perhaps involving your father and your sister—a secret wrapped in silence.”

It was a moment of real risk.

Her voice wasn’t invasive or dramatic. She named what the field seemed to whisper. The room held its breath. One could feel the discomfort. And yet, in the participant’s expression, something shifted—not alarm, but a quiet recognition. A puzzle piece, long buried, clicked into place.

That moment stirred something in me. My own issues with trust came to the surface. Who do I allow to hold space for me? Whose voice do I trust when the truth feels both illuminating and intrusive?

Healing asks us to stay open—but it also demands discernment. Sarah did not press. She simply left space. That, too, is part of the medicine: the willingness to suggest a thread, then step back, allowing whatever truth is ready to rise, to do so on its own terms.

Inherited Shame and the Legacy of Holocaust Trauma

Toward the end of the session, as the room settled back into stillness, a quiet question stirred in me:

What would surface if I stood in the center?

I don’t ask this lightly. To become the focus of a constellation is to allow your inner world—and often your lineage—to be mapped in front of others. Not explained, but revealed. It requires a kind of courage I’m not sure I’ve fully claimed yet.

Still, I began to wonder.

What constellations might emerge around my father’s silence, or my mother’s sorrow? What unspoken griefs—war-torn, inherited—might rise from the lives that came before me? As a second-generation Holocaust survivor, I have long carried the weight of stories half-told and emotions tightly sealed. There is a particular kind of shame that doesn’t belong fully to me, and yet lives in my bones—the shame of survival, of not knowing, of feeling too much and never enough.

Would I recognize myself in the way others moved? In the way someone turned away, or couldn’t meet my gaze? Would they sense the shadow of that unspoken history before any role was named?

👉 See my own work on how unspoken traumas echo across generations.

I thought of my own hesitation—my resistance to trust. It showed up in me, even as a silent witness. I found myself holding back, not out of fear, but out of caution. Who do I allow in? Who do I let see the tender layers of my story—the grief, the inheritance, the shame I’ve spent a lifetime trying to translate into meaning?

Trust, I realized, isn’t only about people. It’s about allowing the unknown to speak—and not rushing to manage or control its language. It’s about letting the past move through the present without needing to explain itself.

And maybe, when I’m ready, I’ll take that step.

Medicine, Belief, and the Mystery In-Between

Like all healing traditions, Family Constellation lives in a space between belief and experience. Some moments felt undeniably real—like watching a soul remember itself through another’s body. Other moments felt less clear, more interpretive. And that’s okay.

Medicine isn’t only what we swallow or inject. Sometimes it’s what we witness. Sometimes it’s what we name. Sometimes it’s simply sitting in a room for four hours, saying very little, and realizing that something inside you has been quietly listening the entire time.

What I know is this: I left that room as if a door within me had opened just a little more.

And maybe, next time, I’ll step inside.

June 2025