Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I loved being a mother. In the chaos of working full time, the time I had with my children in the evenings was sacred. We had our rhythm—homework, baths, bedtime stories. That gentle, golden hour of the day was mine and theirs. The house, for a moment, felt like home. Their laughter echoed freely. We didn’t have to whisper or tiptoe. We didn’t have to hide.

Because he wasn’t home yet.

Those evenings were filled with warmth and love—until the front door opened. Then, everything changed. He’d breeze in, grab a bite, and almost always leave again, claiming he needed gas. I never asked questions. The truth? I was relieved. Life was lighter without him there. We could exhale.

But bedtime was a minefield.

If a child couldn’t sleep, or had a tummy ache, or just needed comfort and crept into our room, it was like stepping on glass. He’d grunt first. Then roll over with an exaggerated sigh. And then—boom. The quiet shattered. His rage ignited over the sound of little feet or a soft whisper in the dark. He’d erupt, stomping through the house, yelling at all of us to “shut up and go to sleep,” slamming doors, barking about how he had to work in the morning.

Even I wasn’t safe from his need for silence.

There were nights I wasn’t ready for bed. I’d climb in, book in hand, reading by my bedside light—until the tension built. He’d tell me to turn it off. I’d say I wasn’t tired yet. His face would harden, the words would spill—accusations of selfishness, of disrespect, of how hard he worked. On the nights I tried to slip out and read in another room, I didn’t get far. Minutes later he’d come pounding down the hallway, furious, demanding I come back to bed. Not because he missed me. But because he couldn’t stand the idea that I was awake without him.

It was always easier to comply. To go still. To quiet myself. To make sure he didn’t wake the children.

Because they deserved peace. Even if I couldn’t have it.

And weekend mornings?

They were the cruelest joke.

Children wake early. Their bodies brim with light before the sun even rises. I’d hear them stir, their little feet padding across the hallway. And instantly, my own body would go rigid. I’d fly out of bed, silently closing our bedroom door behind me. I’d gather them quickly, gently—herding them down the stairs, whispering for silence, hoping we could just make it a few more minutes before he woke.

We’d curl up on the couch, the TV turned to a whisper, their heads nestled against me. Sometimes, we’d succeed. We’d have a moment. We’d laugh quietly, eat dry cereal, hold onto the illusion.

And the belief that the only way to survive is to disappear.

Until someone got hungry.

The sound of a spoon against a bowl. The microwave beep. A cereal box opening.

Shh!

SHH!

And then—the stomp.

The door upstairs slamming open. Heavy feet pounding down the stairs. Curses launched through the walls like grenades.

And just like that, the day was over before it began.

The illusion of safety evaporated. The warmth was gone. The room, once full of sleepy-eyed snuggles, was now thick with fear. We froze. We waited. We tried not to breathe too loud. The joy drained from the morning like color from a fading photograph.

This was the rhythm we lived in. The rhythm of eggshells.

We were always quiet. But never quiet enough.

We were always careful. But never careful enough.

And the worst part?

He’d claim we were the problem. That we made too much noise. That we weren’t respectful. That he was the victim—always working, always burdened.

But confusion.

I started to believe him.

That’s what gaslighting does.

It erodes your truth until you’re not sure what’s real anymore. Until you think maybe you are the one who’s unreasonable. Until waking your children quietly for breakfast becomes an act of rebellion.

That’s the hidden cost of emotional abuse.

Not just fear.

Constant confusion.