I remember situations in which I believed I had everything well under control. Appointments were planned, decisions carefully considered, possible difficulties already played out in my mind. I knew what was supposed to happen next and often had an answer ready before a question had even arisen. That feeling could be very reassuring. It gave me a sense of order in a world that does not always behave in an orderly way. And yet sometimes a single unexpected message, another person’s reaction or a development I had not anticipated was enough for that carefully constructed sense of security to begin crumbling within minutes. Over the course of my life, moments like these have shown me again and again how easily I confused control with safety.
I do not see control itself as something bad. We need it in many areas of life. I want to be able to decide how I use my time, whom I trust, which commitments I take on and what direction I give my life. Without a certain degree of planning and responsibility, we would probably leave ourselves constantly at the mercy of chance. It becomes more difficult for me when this healthy ability to shape my life turns into the desire to control what fundamentally cannot be controlled. How other people react. Whether a relationship lasts. Whether a decision has exactly the consequences I expected. Whether my body always behaves as I would like it to. Whether a piece of work succeeds. Whether another person understands me. Whether life takes any notice of my plans at all.
For a long time, I underestimated how much energy can be lost in trying to avoid uncertainty. The mind is astonishingly inventive when it comes to this. It plans conversations that have not yet taken place. It prepares answers to possible criticism, calculates risks, interprets signs and tries to predict from very little information how a situation is likely to unfold. This can feel like responsibility, even when inwardly I am already occupied with things that do not yet exist. I solve problems that may never arise and, at the same time, try to prepare myself for every imaginable possibility. What can so easily be lost in all of this is the one moment I can actually influence: the one I am living now.
I recognise this desire for control particularly clearly in relationships with other people. There, I inevitably come up against a limit. I can be honest, listen, explain myself, allow closeness and take responsibility for my behaviour. But I cannot determine what another person does with any of that. I cannot force them to understand me, to stay, to feel the same way or to value the same things I do. Even so, I have seen in myself how quickly the urge can arise to produce a certain outcome through words, consideration, adaptation or by anticipating someone else’s response. Not out of bad intent, but because openness makes us vulnerable. If I can influence the outcome, I have to expose myself less to what happens when the other person is free to decide.
Perhaps this is one of the deepest reasons behind our need for control. Control does not only protect us from chaos. It also protects us from the feeling of powerlessness. It can be difficult to accept that something may matter deeply to us and still not be fully in our hands. Precisely where something means a great deal to us, we especially want certainty. We want to know that our love will be returned, that our decision is right, that our path will work and that our effort will be rewarded. But life does not sign such contracts with us. It does not enter into an agreement in which we decide what we will invest and what we will receive in return. At first, this realisation can be unsettling. Over time, however, it became liberating for me too, because I no longer had to see every unexpected turn as proof that I had planned badly or failed.
Through my exploration of inner perception, I noticed something else as well. The more strongly I try to control an experience, the harder it often becomes to perceive it genuinely. I know this from my work with Reiki and from quiet moments when I consciously turn inward. If I desperately want to feel something in particular, I am already searching inwardly for the expected result. Perception then quickly becomes a test. Is there enough? Is it right? Should it be stronger? For me, genuine perception feels different. It arises more readily where, for a moment, I do not decide in advance what is supposed to happen. That does not mean passively surrendering myself to everything. It simply means learning to distinguish between my influence and my desire for control.
This boundary is not always comfortable. I can make decisions, but I cannot fully determine their consequences. I can care for my body, but I cannot purchase a guarantee of health. I can write a book, but I cannot decide how every reader will receive it. I can tell another person the truth without being able to control what it awakens in them. The longer I think about this, the more clearly I see that an astonishingly large part of our lives takes place precisely in this in-between space. We influence something and, at the same time, have to allow it to move beyond our complete control afterwards. Perhaps maturity does not arise from gaining more and more control, but from learning to remain in this space without immediately reaching for another lever.
At this point, the subject also touches on I – Your Best Liar for me. The book explores the subtle stories we tell ourselves to explain why our thoughts and actions are reasonable, necessary or without alternative. Control can hide behind such stories too. I can tell myself that I am simply being forward-thinking when, in truth, I am afraid of an open situation. I can call something care when it has long since become an attempt to protect another person from making a decision I do not like. I can create order while failing to notice that what I am really trying to do is remove uncertainty from my life. I find these forms especially interesting because they do not look like self-deception. They often feel extremely reasonable.
Today, the thought that I cannot control everything frightens me less than it once did. Not because I have learnt simply to let everything happen, but because I can distinguish more clearly between what truly lies with me and what never did. I can be present. I can decide. I can act, respond, change my attitude and take responsibility. But somewhere beyond that begins a realm in which life itself answers. No amount of additional thinking or even the most precise planning can help there. And sometimes I even find it reassuring now that not everything depends on me. It takes nothing away from the significance of my life. It gives something back that control could never create: the possibility of still being surprised.