When I moved to Washington, D.C. at 21, I thought the hardest part would be the weather.

Standing in the wind on snowy days, waiting for the next transfer bus.
Long commutes with no shortcuts — just buses, trains, and more waiting.
Sandwiches for lunch instead of the warm comfort of a well-balanced thali.

I was ready for the culture shock.
I was ready for the struggle.

What I wasn’t ready for… was her.
My aunt.
Tall. Fair. Always immaculately dressed.
The kind of woman who made an entrance, even into her own living room.

She wasn’t just family, she became my first mirror into the complicated world of power, womanhood, and control.

She presented herself as my American anchor — a guide, a protector, a bridge to my new life.
But what unfolded was something far more unsettling.

She was charming — selectively. Generous — performatively.
And deeply invested in being seen as the reason behind any inch of progress I made.

She loved to say she “got me my first job” — a low-paying office gig she secured with a single phone call.
She repeated it often, like a mantra.
What she really meant was: “Don’t forget who holds the keys.”

Her need for control was subtle but relentless.
I wasn’t encouraged to explore, connect, or even hang out with her kids, who were my age, because that would shift the dynamic.
Instead, my weekends were scripted: her TV shows, her stories, her grievances.
I became her audience, not her equal.

The landline. The conversations with my mom, just a few states away, yet it felt like an ocean between us. All filtered, timed, shaped — like everything else in that house, curated for control.
She painted a version of me that suited her narrative.
And at that point in my life, I hadn’t yet learned how to reclaim my own.

But here’s what’s important:
This isn’t just a story about one woman.
It’s about a type.

The type who sees another woman’s light as competition.
The type who masks insecurity as mentorship.
The type who believes influence means control, not empowerment.

And yes, she was my first taste of what many women eventually encounter:
The boss who doesn’t lift you.
She gatekeeps. She gossips. She makes you doubt yourself.
And worst of all? She does it while demanding gratitude.

But here’s the twist.
I don’t hate her.
In a strange way, I thank her.

Because of her, I learned that not every woman in power has done the inner work.
That leadership isn’t about gender, it’s about emotional maturity.
And that sometimes, the people who say they’re helping you are really just managing your shine.

Now, I lead differently.
I don’t want credit for someone else’s growth, I want collaboration.
I don’t keep people small to feel big, I hold space so others can expand.

And if you’ve ever felt that quiet suffocation under a woman who should’ve been your champion?

You’re not alone.
You’re not crazy.
And you’re not staying there.

We rise.
We learn.
And we rebuild leadership, not as control, but as clarity.

That experience didn’t just shape my career.
It shaped my calling.

Today, I hold space for women who’ve been bruised by other women — in families, offices, friendships.
It’s the quiet trauma we don’t always name, because we’re told to “just get over it.”
But I know how deep it cuts.

In my coaching, I help you untangle that pain without shame.
To reclaim your sense of self.
To lead, love, and live — without the residue of manipulation.

You don’t have to carry someone else’s projections anymore.
There’s space for your truth here.

And it’s powerful.

If this spoke to something in you, I’d love to walk with you.