The Old Blog in the Desert

I used to believe control was something you could grip, like a steering wheel. Hands at ten and two, eyes forward, confident that if you paid attention and followed the rules, you’d arrive where you intended.

That belief felt responsible. Adult, reassuring, and I liked it.

I planned my days, my words, my future with color-coded calendars and tidy intentions. Control wasn’t arrogance; it was diligence, proof I was trying.

Then little things began to slip. Not catastrophes, just annoyances.

A rescheduled meeting after I’d rearranged everything else. A careful email that became misunderstood.

My body that didn’t respond the way I told it to, no matter how many lists I made or promises I whispered. I tightened my grip.

I’d planned more and made a better effort, only to figure out that the steering wheel wasn’t attached to anything at all.

I remember standing in the grocery store, staring at an empty shelf where the thing I needed was supposed to be. I felt an absurd flare of anger, like the universe had personally inconvenienced me.

I caught myself thinking, “This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

That sentence was on repeat a lot back then. It sounded reasonable, even noble, but it also sounded like a contract I’d invented and expected reality to honor.

Control, I realized, had rules only I believed in. The strange thing is how convincing the illusion is.

When things go right, I credit my discipline, my foresight, my good choices. When they don’t, I assume I missed something, that I didn’t try hard enough, or want it badly enough.

Control thrives on hindsight. It points backward and says, “See? You should have known.”

It never points forward or admits it’s guessing like everyone else. I tested this theory by paying attention to my own life.

They arrived sideways. A conversation I almost skipped, a mistake that closed one door and quietly opened another, people who stayed when I didn’t know how to ask them to, or left without explanation.

None of it followed my schedule. None of it asked permission.

That’s when the fear crept in. If control is an illusion, then what’s left?

Chaos? Helplessness? Dumb luck?

The idea made my chest tighten. I didn’t want to drift. I wanted to drive.

But slowly, inconveniently, another truth surfaced: letting go of control didn’t mean giving up responsibility. It meant giving up the fantasy that I could guarantee outcomes.

There’s a difference between effort and enforcement. I can show up, pick honesty over comfort, kindness over impulse.

I can prepare, practice, and pay attention, but I can’t force timing. I can’t script other people, or outmaneuver uncertainty forever. The illusion of control promised safety, but what it delivered was constant tension, like holding my breath and calling it stability.

The relief came quietly. I stopped arguing with what was happening and started responding to it.

When plans unraveled, I asked better questions instead of assigning blame. When things worked out, I felt grateful instead of smug.

I noticed how much energy I’d spent trying to dominate the moment rather than participate in it. Life felt less like a test I could fail, and more like a conversation I could join.

I still catch myself reaching for that steering wheel. Old habits don’t vanish just because you see through them.

But now, when my hands close around it, I smile. I loosen my grip and look at the road unfolding. And I’m still moving, not because I’m in control, but because I’m willing to be present for whatever comes next.