From the time we are young, we're subtly—and sometimes overtly—conditioned to chase control. We're told to plan for the future, make lists, take initiative, stay on top of things, and "take control of our lives." Control is framed as a virtue, a sign of maturity and discipline. And to some extent, it is. But I’ve come to see that our obsession with control often has more to do with fear than with strength.
At the heart of this fear is uncertainty.
Uncertainty is one of the most uncomfortable states for the human mind. It leaves open too many possibilities—especially the ones we don’t like. It means we can’t predict whether something will go wrong. It means we can’t ensure we won’t get hurt. And so, in response, we develop strategies to gain control: we over-plan, overthink, micromanage, obsess. We think that if we just tighten our grip enough, nothing will slip through our fingers.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Even when we plan everything down to the smallest detail, we still get blindsided by illness, heartbreak, rejection, or loss. The job doesn’t call back. The friend grows distant. The plan falls through. The world moves on with an indifference that humbles us. And that’s where the paradox begins to unfold: the more we try to control everything, the more anxious and disappointed we become.
In many ways, the desire for control is a form of resistance—resistance against the fundamental nature of life. And here’s the fundamental nature, at least from what I’ve observed: life is messy, dynamic, and bigger than us. There’s beauty in that, but there’s also terror. So we try to carve out little spaces of predictability and convince ourselves we’re in command.
But what if letting go isn’t weakness? What if it’s wisdom?
The Stoics had a concept called the dichotomy of control. Epictetus, one of the most quoted Stoic philosophers, taught that there are two categories of things in life: those we can control and those we cannot. Our actions, our judgments, our intentions—these are ours to govern. But everything else—what others do, what life throws at us, how people feel about us—is outside our control.
It’s a simple philosophy, yet incredibly difficult to live by. Why? Because we are deeply emotionally tied to the things we can’t control. We want to be liked. We want our plans to work. We want certainty that the people we love will always be there. And even though logic tells us we can’t guarantee these things, we still try.
For me, this realization hit hardest during a time of personal struggle. I was trying to juggle everything—school, relationships, future plans—while feeling like I was quietly unraveling inside. I micromanaged every part of my day, believing that if I just organized well enough, I’d feel secure. But the more I tried to control, the more out of control I felt. I wasn’t dealing with the root of my fear—I was just trying to outsmart it.
It wasn’t until I began to practice letting go—truly letting go—that I started to find peace. Not letting go in the sense of apathy or defeat, but in the sense of acceptance. Accepting that I can’t control how people see me. Accepting that I will sometimes fail. Accepting that uncertainty isn’t the enemy; it’s just part of being alive.
This isn’t a one-time epiphany. Letting go is a practice. It shows up in the small decisions: choosing not to ruminate over something I said last week, or resisting the urge to refresh my email for validation. It shows up in how I approach relationships—not clinging to others to soothe my insecurity, but connecting because I genuinely want to. It shows up in how I approach my goals—not as guarantees of happiness, but as pursuits that align with my values.
And slowly, I’ve begun to experience a different kind of control—one that comes not from dominating life, but from cooperating with it. It’s quieter, less showy. But it’s real. It’s the control of choosing how to respond when things fall apart. The control of holding space for discomfort without needing to immediately fix it. The control of knowing who I am, even when the world around me is shifting.
So here’s the paradox in full: letting go doesn’t mean losing control. It means redirecting it. Away from what’s impossible to manage—like outcomes and other people—and toward what’s always been ours: our character, our presence, our choices.
In a culture that idolizes control and productivity, letting go might feel like a failure. But I’m starting to think it’s one of the most courageous things we can do.
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