Defiance Doesn’t Always Roar, Sometimes It Whispers
In a family built on blind obedience, it took a diagnosis to break away.
My grandparents raised us to kneel at their altar.
Many believe family is a group of individuals bound by blood or affection. This was not the case for my grandparents. Family meant only one thing: duty.
Every member, from sons and daughters to spouses and grandchildren, had one purpose in life. We were to obey their every command, think as they think, and follow the path they chose for us. We were not individuals but extensions of them.
Any failure to dance to their tune was disobedience. Or worse, treason.
My grandmother never made it a secret that she never wanted grandchildren. Despite having no desire to be a mother, she had four children to avoid entering the workforce. She told us this often.
I was the first grandchild, the only granddaughter. I grew up knowing that my birth wasn’t a celebratory event. After all, she was “too young” to be a grandmother.
My grandmother was happiest when I wasn’t around. Although I couldn’t fault her for this. I was happiest when she wasn’t around either.
I’ve watched them use my mother, destroy two of her marriages, and degrade her without remorse. She does everything for them. She arranges her life around what they need. There has never been a shred of gratitude.
They hijacked our vacations. They moved into the house next door without notice. My grandfather commandeered our garage without permission.
My mother’s husbands had to drop everything and work on any project my grandfather commanded. They were always on call. My ex-stepfather replaced floors and renovated their basement into an apartment. My mother believes this could be why he left.
Their control was infinite. They told us which houses to buy and how to spend our money. I’ve hidden many purchases they would consider frivolous just to keep the peace.
When I worked at the supermarket, my grandfather expected me to drop everything I was doing to assist him. I got in trouble for this more than once.
When I first began to suspect I was autistic, I remember my first thought.
“The family will never accept this.”
And by “the family,” I didn’t mean my mother, brother, or father. I meant them, my grandparents. The two people who never had a kind word to say, not even for their own kin.
My grandmother didn’t believe in these “mental illnesses of today.” To her, they were just proof of bad parenting and lack of discipline.
When I clicked on that first video about autism symptoms in women, I knew what I was risking. It meant breaking the one unbreakable rule I had followed all my life.
Do not upset my grandparents.
That’s why it took me two years to gather the courage to pursue a diagnosis. It was my first real act of rebellion. A step toward my own liberation. And it wouldn’t be my last.
After my diagnosis, I shared it only with my immediate family. I made no moves to alert my grandparents, cousins, uncles, or aunts. These were not people I interacted with often. I didn’t see the need.
Eventually, my mother told my grandparents with my permission.
I never expected acceptance. I hoped for silence. My grandparents were great at ignoring what they didn’t want to acknowledge. I assumed my autism would join that list.
I was wrong.
They didn’t tell me directly. They spoke to my mother instead. Their take on my diagnosis was more outrageous than I expected.
I thought they would say I wasn’t autistic — that it was a misdiagnosis. Or maybe they’d tell me to keep it to myself. “What would people think?”
Instead, they denied the existence of autism altogether.
They said it wasn’t real - I was being brainwashed.
Why?
It was because I had started seeing a therapist to process my diagnosis. I wanted to build habits that supported my neurodivergence — to take charge of my mental health.
To them, that was unheard of and unnecessary.
One night, my grandmother called to “check on my mother.” In reality, she wanted her to make a doctor’s appointment for her. While on the phone, I overheard everything. Someone should tell her that her voice carries.
My mother told her I was in my office working on something.
I was on leave, taking care of my mother after surgery. I was applying for jobs as a content writer or technical writer.
My mother thought it best not to tell her that. She knew my grandmother would disapprove.
But I do not care if they know.
All my life, I have wanted to be a writer. Something as irrelevant as their disapproval won’t stop me. My rekindled love for writing gave me the power to choose my own path. Not theirs.
“What is wrong with that girl?” my grandmother asked.
Apparently, visiting your own home office in your own house, while not on the clock, is a mortal sin.
Something about that struck me the wrong way.
I wasn’t inclined to let this one go for the sake of peace. Not after a lifetime of biting my tongue when they pointed out all the ways I wasn’t normal. Not after hearing that they believed I was brainwashed.
This was the last straw. I had run out of patience.
My response was subtle.
The next day, I accompanied my grandparents and mother to the store. They were trying to return an item they had kept for over eight months. I knew it was a fool’s errand.
So I dressed for the occasion.
I wore my autism acceptance shirt and my autism awareness jacket. I brought a fidget toy to distract me from my nerves.
I never said a word.
I didn’t need to.
They knew my stance.
I’d always knelt before their altar. This time, I stood.
