30 Days of Past Life Regression - Day 5: The Price of Inheritance

I chose today to follow the tangled threads of money. The echoes of blocks I still feel in this life, the subtle tightness, the unspoken beliefs, the frustration that seems to rise whenever worth and wealth meet. I asked to be shown where this originated.

What emerged was a life not so distant in time, but heavy in weight.

It was the 1800s, I was born into a world of land and bloodlines, a third-generation settler family, our roots carried from England to the soil of South Carolina. My family name was once respected here, tied to wealth, land, and power, though beneath that surface was something far darker.

We lived on a sprawling estate, an expanse of fields and gardens and grand old trees. But the land was worked not by us, but by those forced to serve. Our family owned many slaves who tended the wheat fields and laboured inside the house. Their lives were tethered to our comfort, their freedom stolen long before my own lifetime ever began. That weight of knowing sat in the air even then.

My father was a harsh man, brutal, commanding, cold as iron. He had inherited the estate from his father, and from his father before him. The power of ownership pulsed through his blood like a sickness. His love for control bled into everything, the land, the people, the walls of the house itself. His cruelty spared no one: not my mother, not us children, not the servants who dared breathe wrong in his presence.

My mother... she was a shadow. Quiet as a mouse, rarely seen and even more rarely heard. Her only purpose, it seemed, was to bear child after child for my father’s legacy. I lost track of how many siblings I had. We came like seasons, one after the next, as though her body were nothing but soil for his name to grow from. She lived her life small and trembling, surviving, but never thriving.

I was the second eldest. My older brother stood ahead of me, and behind us stretched the long trail of sisters. The weight of birth order was undeniable. He was the heir. I was invisible.

Though my father ruled with a heavy hand, there was one small pocket of light in that house, my nanny. She was young, kind, and in many ways far more a mother to me than my own could ever be. She carried us away when storms of rage began to brew. She read my father’s moods like weather patterns, knowing when to keep us hidden in the gardens or out beneath the trees, far from his wrath.

Then everything began to unravel.

When my brother turned seventeen, sickness found him. A fevered illness, something he had caught from one of the slaves who worked the estate. No doctor could save him. And when he died, my father’s rage tore through the house like wildfire. In his fury, he murdered not only the servant who had fallen ill, but the entire family of slaves connected to him.

A blood price for the loss of his son.

But his anger was not only for their deaths, but for the death of his own legacy. With his male heir gone, he believed everything would be lost. The estate, the name, the wealth, all of it, worthless without a man to claim it.

I begged him then. I pleaded for him to place the estate in my name. I was capable, responsible. I understood the land. But he only laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed through me even as I watched him sneer.

"A woman? Inherit?" The very idea disgusted him.

Better for it to be taken from us than for a daughter to hold it.

When he died, just two years later, his will reflected that hatred. He left nothing, not for my mother, nor for me, nor for any of my sisters. Within days, strange men arrived at our estate. Papers were signed. Deals made behind closed doors. They stripped us of everything, the land, the house, the money, even our clothing.

Our nanny, my only true comfort, was not spared. She was passed to the new owners like property changing hands.

With nothing left, we were cast out into the streets. My mother, myself, and my sisters were left to beg for scraps, nobility turned into shadows overnight. The cold, the hunger, the shame of it all, it devoured us. My younger sisters fell one by one in those early months, too weak to survive the winter that followed. My mother was next. And in less than a year, we were all gone.

It was a life defined by violence.

By ownership.

By power stolen and hoarded and wielded like a weapon.

And at the root of it, the message that carved itself into my soul was clear:

As a woman, I am not allowed to hold wealth.

As a woman, I am not allowed to be safe without a man.

As a woman, my worth is tied to someone else’s name.

That wound has followed me into this lifetime. The silent beliefs about money. The fear of asking. The hesitation to claim ownership.

The whisper that says: "If I have too much, it will be taken from me."

But now, seeing it, I can feel the grip beginning to loosen.

This was not my truth.

It was only my inheritance.

And I am ready to release it.

The Lesson This Life Gave Me

That life showed me how many generations of women have been chained by invisible laws.

How easily worth was assigned not by soul, nor by ability, but simply by gender.

The idea that a woman could inherit, could own, could create wealth was unthinkable.

It was not even discussed.

To be a woman was to be dependent. To survive only through the permission of a man.

Inheritance was not simply property; it was permission to exist safely. And without it, we were nothing.

That lifetime carved a deep imprint into my soul, one of powerlessness, of voicelessness, of rage swallowed quietly.

It locked into my energy field a belief that success and wealth were not mine to hold.

That abundance would slip through my fingers.

That safety was always out of reach unless someone else offered it.

And yet, that was then.

That was that lifetime.

Those were the rules of a world long gone.

This is not that world.

This is not that life.

Now, in this lifetime, the cage has broken. The old rules no longer bind me.

Women are rising.

We are no longer small, or silent, or dependent on the hands of others.

We are no longer required to beg for permission to create, to build, to receive.

The doors have opened.

Now, I am allowed to stand tall.

To be seen.

To be heard.

To own.

To hold wealth not with fear, but with pride.

To receive abundance not as something stolen, but as something natural.

I am here to break the chain.

I am here to heal the wounds of my ancestors.

I am here to reclaim what was always mine to begin with.

And as I rise, I do not rise alone, but with the voices of all the women who came before me, and the daughters who will follow.

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Your story is waiting to be remembered.

Emma Elizabeth

www.RealmsofAlchemy.com