An Article by Joyce Miller
In the world today, we are often encouraged to ‘speak our truth’ and ‘process our emotions,’ but just think about both how necessary and how recent that is for us. The idea of processing what you want, being in touch with your emotions, etc., that’s not new. However, the language for doing that is.
There have been countless generations before us that have existed without this crucial bit of vocabulary, generations for whom the idea of understanding what is going on in one’s head has been critically necessary. Think of the generation that came of age during World War II, and how these concepts were entirely foreign.
In her memoir, Yesterday’s Child, Joyce Renée Miller reflects on an era where silence was the primary tool for survival and emotional resilience was an unspoken requirement rather than a choice. A resilience that most of the children growing up in those conditions did not even know was needed.
Endurance was the Culture, and it was Required.
Growing up in a strict Baptist household in Woolwich and later the Norfolk countryside, Joyce describes a life governed by structure and restraint. Religion was not a source of emotional comfort but a framework for discipline; self-control was considered a primary virtue. Within this environment, children were expected to self-manage and accept their circumstances without fuss.
This culture of silence was most profound during times of personal loss. When Joyce’s father died, she recalls, “there was no language for grief given to me.”
Think about losing your most trusted source of support at a time when you—regardless of whether you are a child or not—need it the most. During wartime, we all scramble for a source of strength, and fathers often are—who are themselves scared. But Joyce and many children like her did not have the required language to even express this grief, to understand it.
Despite the massive shift in her family’s reality, there were no explanations or conversations to help a young child navigate the void. Loss was simply absorbed quietly, much like the fear of the war that was beginning to unfold around them.
This emotional restraint was exemplified by Joyce’s mother. Widowed young and tasked with caring for two small daughters and an ailing father, Nellie carried the weight of the household quietly, too. In this generation, love was rarely expressed through hugs or verbal affirmations; instead, it was demonstrated through tireless effort—keeping the house in order, ensuring there was food on the table, and maintaining a sense of normalcy in the face of exhaustion and fear.
The Mind Fears the Fog of War.
As the threat of war became a daily reality, everything shifted from private grief to collective anxiety. Even after moving to the relative safety of Norfolk, fear was always there. What if an attack comes in the dead of night? What if they are captured? What if they wake to air raid sirens? What if an attack occurs and there are no sirens at all?
All this only served to exacerbate the effect of trauma and distress on an already distressed mind and heart.
Looking back, Miller observes that her generation did not learn resilience because it was a subject of study or a goal to be achieved. That resilience wasn’t taught, but necessary. There was simply no alternative but to endure.
But that is never the ideal template for the future. That’s why the language for grief exists today in the first place. So that everyone—not just children—learn the resilience and endurance necessary, understand themselves and their grief, and know what goes on in their hearts and heads.
There might not be a wartime in the present—not in the sense as it was during World War II—though world events are certainly moving in a direction when this language might become an even more dire necessity.