CONTROL

Stories & investigation about control

The Grip

They likely didn’t notice when it began — this habit of gripping, bracing against life.

Perhaps it started in early childhood, trying to make a parent smile or stay calm. Or maybe in adolescence, carefully managing friendships like delicate glass. Later still, it may have shown up in the adult drive to get everything right — in career, appearance, relationships, or inner peace.

Somewhere along the way, a silent belief took root:

“If I can just control this, everything will be okay.”

Control became their compass. They planned carefully, edited themselves in real-time, preempted problems before they could unfold. They searched for the safest words, the most agreeable tone, the path of least risk. And when life felt shaky, they worked harder. Studied more. Tried to think their way into safety.

It rarely felt like fear. It felt like being responsible. Like being good.

But the cracks began to show.

At first, in subtle ways — a conversation didn’t land, someone misunderstood, the job they pursued slipped through their fingers, the relationship unravelled under the weight of perfection.

And then, maybe one night, lying in the quiet, thoughts circling like birds with no place to land, something shifted.

The body was tight. Jaw clenched. Shoulders like stone. A fist of tension in the gut.

And somewhere inside, a whisper surfaced:

“I’m so tired.”

This wasn’t surrender, not yet. But it was a pause.
A softening. A breath of honesty.

Then a question arose, unbidden:

“Who is doing all this controlling?”

They waited. No answer came. Just silence.

Just breath. Just sensations. Just thought, arising on its own.

And in that stillness, something was seen:
The thoughts were not being generated by a "me."
They simply appeared.

And so began a shift — not dramatic, not final — but real.

A new kind of noticing.

When criticism came, the old reflex to defend still rose… but now it was seen like a weather pattern.
When plans fell apart, the tightening still arrived… but part of them stayed still, untouched.

Not numb — just aware.

They saw how often the grip returned. How the mind still tried to manage even surrender itself — strategizing emotions, rehearsing presence, trying to let go correctly.

But the more clearly it was seen, the more absurd it became.

Control was never real.

It had been a cloak draped over fear.
A story woven from old wounds and future fantasies.

And once seen, the illusion began to dissolve.

They started walking slower. Scrolling on the phone less. Saying “I don’t know” without shame.
Sometimes crying, without fixing or explaining.

They still acted, still responded.
But not from effort. Not from gripping.

Life simply moved — not through their will, but through their openness.

And in the quiet that followed — in the spaces once filled with internal scripts and strategies — there was something else.

Not control. Not certainty.

Just space.

And within that space, a subtle joy began to emerge.
Not dramatic. Not ecstatic.
Just the quiet joy of not having to hold it all together.

Because — and this was the most honest part —

It was never theirs to hold…

Here’s another story to illustrate from a different perspective..

The Illusion of the Wheel

You thought you were driving.

That was the feeling, anyway.
Life was the road, and you were at the wheel.
You made decisions. You chose your words. You acted.
Sometimes well. Sometimes poorly.
But either way, you were the one steering.

Or so it seemed.

You remember the first time that feeling wavered.

It wasn’t dramatic.
Just a moment — one quiet evening, the kind where nothing much happens.
You were replaying a conversation in your head, one you wished had gone differently.
A familiar loop: “Why did I say that?”, “What should I have done instead?”
Trying to re-control the past.

Now, the following are possibilities, even probabilities - or may even be something you have experienced..

And suddenly, like a gap in the clouds, a question appears:

“Did I really choose to say that?”

Not just conceptually — you looked.

And what you found wasn’t solid.

There had been a thought, a feeling, a surge of emotion…
Then words. Then a reaction. Then judgment.
But at no point could you find an operator behind the scenes pulling the levers.

It had all… just happened.

And that shook you.

Because if that wasn’t controlled, what else wasn’t?

You started paying closer attention.

To decisions. To actions. To “choices.”

You watched them emerge like waves — impulses arising, thoughts appearing, movements happening.

Even the intention to pause and observe — that too appeared on its own.

You laughed at the irony:
Even your intention to discover the truth wasn’t yours.

So what was intention, really?

It didn’t feel like control.

It felt more like a current in the river — sometimes gentle, sometimes forceful — but never yours to command.

And it was everywhere.
In the urge to speak.
In the movement toward someone’s pain.
In the recoil from a hot stove.
In the desire to know.

Even now, sitting in silence, you could feel the shape of intention forming —
like the wind before the leaves moved.

Not your wind.
Not your leaves.

Control, you realized, had never truly existed.

Only ownership of what had already occurred.

Like a child sitting in a toy car, turning a plastic wheel,
believing they’re guiding the scenery outside the window.

It was sobering.

And it was freeing.

Because when there’s no controller,
there’s nothing to protect.

And when intention isn’t yours, you can’t fail at it.

You just watch it rise.

And if it leans toward clarity, toward truth, toward openness — you follow,
without needing to know why.

Because that movement doesn’t come from effort.
It comes from somewhere deeper.
Somewhere before thought.

You don’t know what that is.

You only know this:

It’s what breathes you.
It’s what beats your heart.
It’s what walks your feet through the forest.
It’s what wrote this story,
even as you thought you were reading it.

Control — at its core — is the imagined ability to direct life, manage outcomes, and secure safety or satisfaction through will or effort.

But let’s look deeper:

In direct experience, what is control?

Right now, is there a thing you can locate called "control"? DO THIS! Don’t just read it. Look for that ‘thing’.

You may notice thoughts about deciding, efforting, planning. You may feel a tightening in the body when trying to control something — a clenching of the jaw, a contraction in the gut, a sense of pushing.

But is there an actual controller behind the effort?

Or is there just movement happening, and thoughts appearing that interpret that movement as “my control”?

Control is a story

It's a narrative superimposed on spontaneous events.

A thought arises: “I need to do this.”
The body moves.
Another thought follows: “I chose to do that. I controlled it.”

But all of it — the thought, the movement, the interpretation — arose on its own, unbidden.

Control is post-hoc ownership of something already unfolding. It happens after the event. Correlation is not causation. These events are not connected in any way. It just appears that way.

Why do we believe in it?

Because believing in control gives us:

• A sense of safety in an unpredictable world.

• A sense of self — someone who is steering this life.

• A sense of moral identity — I am responsible, I am good, I am bad.

Control is part of the structure that supports the illusion of a separate "me."

What happens when control is questioned?

There may be fear at first. If “I” am not in control, then what am I? What will happen to me?

But then, something else arises — relief.

Because in truth, you were never in control.

The river was always flowing. The effort was always appearing on its own. The one who claimed it was a ghost.

And the world is not falling apart because of that.

So what is control?

• A feeling in the body.

• A thought loop about outcomes.

• A lens that overlays spontaneity.

• A central player in the myth of separation.

And when seen clearly… just another story, arising and passing, in the vastness of what you truly are.

Control is the belief (and felt sense) that you can direct and manage life — outcomes, emotions, other people, even your own thoughts.

But when you look closely at your experience, you find this:

• Thoughts appear.

• Feelings arise.

• Actions happen.

• The body moves.

All without a central "you" orchestrating them.

Control, then, is not something real in itself — it is a narrative the mind overlays on spontaneous activity.

It's a claim of ownership after the fact:
"I did that,"
when in truth, doing simply happened.

Control is often driven by fear.
It arises when something uncomfortable appears, and the mind says:

"I must fix this."

But if you pause in that moment… where is the actual controller?

Can you find it?

Or is there only a sense of control — built from thoughts, effort, and resistance?

What part does intention play in control?

Intention is often mistaken for control.

We believe:

“Because I intended it, I controlled it.”

But look closer:

• Did you intend the intention?

• Did you choose the thought before it appeared?

• Or did it just arise, like all other thoughts?

In control-mode, intention is claimed as mine.
But just like control itself, this “ownership” is a mental overlay.

That doesn’t mean intention isn’t real. It appears. It functions.
But its source is not “you” as a separate self.

Control claims intention.
But intention, like everything else, arises in a field you don’t manage.

What is intention?

Intention is a movement — a leaning, a directional impulse — often felt before action or decision.

You might sense:

• A movement toward safety

• A desire to understand

• A pull to avoid pain

• A draw to truth

It’s subtle, often nonverbal.

Intention is not the same as choice or willpower.
It’s closer to a trajectory than a command.

And you can notice: different intentions lead to very different outcomes in how life is met.

• An intention to protect leads to contraction.

• An intention to control leads to stress.

• An intention to open leads to surrender and clarity.

So the quality of intention is powerful — even if you don’t “own” it.

Where does intention originate?

This is where things become deeply quiet.

Where does any thought, sensation, or impulse originate?

Look closely:
Can you find a point of origin?

Thoughts appear. Intentions arise.
But there is no identifiable "place" they come from.

They emerge from what some call:

• Awareness

• Consciousness

• Stillness

• Source

• Life

Words differ, but the reality is the same:

Intention arises from the same unknowable place as breath, as sunlight, as the sound of the wind.

It is not yours in the personal sense.

But it is what moves life.

And when the body-mind aligns with an intention toward truth, toward honesty, toward surrender —
things unfold differently.
Not because “you” made it so —
but because resistance relaxed,
and life could move clearly through.