Holding on when I’m not in control

I remember being pushed on a merry-go-round as a child. At first, it was thrilling. But as the speed picked up and the world began to spin faster, I wanted to stop. The person pushing, however, laughed and kept going. Trapped, I couldn’t get off. I wasn’t in control.

Merry-go-rounds and airplanes

Over the years, many people have told me they don’t enjoy flying because they aren’t the ones flying the plane. The feeling of being completely at someone else’s mercy entirely is unsettling. Some find comfort when the pilot speaks over the intercom, offering a glimpse of what’s ahead, even it it’s just turbulence. 

Most of us can recall being children, longing for the day we’d be old enough to make our own decisions. Listening to parents, teachers, or coaches never felt as empowering as choosing for ourselves. Even now, my two-year-old grandson lights up when given a choice instead of being told what to do.

You don’t have to be a control freak to want clarity or agency. I felt that recently when sitting in a medical exam room, waiting far longer than expected with no idea when the doctor would arrive. That sense of uncertainty–of not knowing what’s next–can be surprisingly disorienting. But life doesn’t always offer us the luxury of knowing what comes next. 

When life is out of my hands

At  work, for example, decisions can unfold without our input, leaving us stuck in the waiting. In those moments, I feel a lot like I did on that merry-go-round years ago–caught in the spin, waiting for someone else to stop it. 

There are seasons when life feels completely out of our hands–when living with someone with an addiction or caring for someone who is terminally ill. We can’t make the choices for them. We can’t stop the outcome.  Much like passengers on a plane, we’re strapped in, hoping for a safe landing but powerless to steer the course.

I’m not writing to offer a tidy solution for these moments of uncertainty. I wish I had one. What I can share is this–I’m learning to sit in the uncomfortable. I don’t like it, but I’m discovering that in those moments of surrender, I grow in vulnerability, in trust, and in empathy. The discomfort doesn’t last forever–but while I’m in it, I try to keep my eyes open for others who might be there too.

And, I remember to find small moments in which I do have a choice. Like my grandson, I’m learning that choice doesn’t have to be big to be meaningful–it just has to be mine. Perhaps I can’t control the final outcomes, but I can make a choice to do my best on a project, to take a nap when I need it, and to visit a friend when I need a break. Each small decision reminds me that even in the unknown, I still have a choice–and that choice matters.