Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

There was always an unease in my chest—a tightness that never really loosened—especially when her name appeared on my phone. My mother-in-law. It was never really a question when she called. It was a command: Come over. Bring the children. No please. No consideration. Just the expectation that we would obey. That I would obey.

From the very beginning, I felt the tension between us. She never truly cared for me. If anything, I think she saw me as a threat—someone who stood between her and complete control over her son. She didn’t want a daughter-in-law; she wanted access. And now that we had children, I was merely the gatekeeper to the prize she had always wanted: grandchildren.

But this wasn’t just about me. Over time, I began to see what I had stepped into—a tightly woven system of silence and control that extended far beyond our nuclear family. Her power didn’t end with her immediate household. It stretched across the entire extended family like an invisible net. Everyone knew who held the strings. And everyone was terrified of what might happen if they tugged on them.

She had the wealth. The vacation homes. The gifts that came wrapped in ribbons but tied with unspoken conditions. Accept the gift, but never forget who gave it. And never, ever speak up.

I lived in a quiet state of anxiety, but it was heightened when she was near. And everyone else seemed to live this way, too. There were whispers behind closed doors—mentions of her cruelty, especially when she drank—but never any real acknowledgment. Not in the light. Not where it counted.

One moment stands out with stunning clarity. I had a phone call with her—I don’t even remember the topic anymore—and she hung up on me. I was stunned. But not as stunned as when her husband called me shortly after, furious. How dare you hang up on her? he demanded. He expected me to apologize immediately. When I tried to explain what really happened, he shut me down. Then he called my husband and told him to “get me in line.”

Get me in line.

The pressure was suffocating. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but it didn’t matter. The message was clear: in this family, the truth does not matter. Power does. Control does. And I had threatened both.

My husband begged me to apologize just to smooth things over. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But I also knew this wasn’t a battle I could win. So he smoothed it over for me, as he always did. A mediator who never questioned the authority, only the fallout.

What haunted me most wasn’t that this happened—it was how accepted it was. How everyone knew and yet said nothing. The family operated like a well-oiled machine built on fear, obligation, and silence. No one dared speak out. No one wanted to risk losing the perks—being cut off, excluded, punished.

Even our extended family was entangled in it. We used to vacation with my husband’s cousin and her family. Our kids adored each other, and we genuinely enjoyed their company. We’d talk about visits and sleepovers when we returned home, but they never came. Always an excuse. I didn’t understand—until I did.

They couldn’t come visit us without my mother-in-law knowing. And if she knew, it would be unacceptable for them to stay with us. The only socially acceptable place to stay was with her. And for that, they would have to endure her moods, her scrutiny, her emotional grip. It was easier to say no to all of it than to risk confrontation. Easier to lie than to be honest.

That’s how the cycle keeps going. The fear of loss—of favor, of inclusion, of love, of inheritance—becomes more powerful than truth. More powerful than justice. The family becomes a fortress, not to protect against harm, but to protect the abuser from exposure.

I wasn’t allowed to say it out loud. That she lied. That she manipulated. That she wielded her power not with love, but with fear. The more I saw the cracks in the façade, the more I was made to feel ungrateful. Crazy. Disrespectful.

But I wasn’t crazy. I was waking up.

The greatest abusers don’t always scream. Sometimes they just whisper expectations. Guilt. Pressure. They create a world where silence is survival and speaking up is betrayal.

And when everyone’s invested in keeping the peace, the truth becomes the real danger.

But here I am, telling it anyway.