When Control Becomes a Survival Language

I’ve been thinking a lot about something my therapist said: “Some things are in your control, and others are not.”

It sounds simple. Almost obvious.
But for someone like me, those words carry the weight of a lifetime.

As a survivor of forced displacement, control was never something I was given, it was something I built.

When you are uprooted from everything you know, when the future becomes a question mark, and when stability is no longer guaranteed, your mind learns to compensate. Mine did. I became a planner, an overthinker, someone who needed to anticipate every possibility. Not because I wanted to, but because it made me feel safe.

Planning gave me structure.
Overthinking gave me a sense of preparedness.
Control gave me the illusion that nothing would catch me off guard again.

But control didn’t just come from displacement. It was reinforced in the quiet, everyday battles that followed.

I was a high school student trying to navigate a completely new culture and system. I was holding onto my upbringing, my language, my identity, while also trying to fit into a world that felt unfamiliar. Somewhere in between, I felt lost.

I had to figure things out on my own:

• How the education system worked
• How to choose a major
• What it meant to succeed
• How to transfer to a university
• How to build a future I couldn’t clearly see

All of this while learning English, while feeling uncertain, while not having a clear example to follow.

Yes, I was fortunate to find support along the way—advisors, professors, and people who guided me. But even with that support, it wasn’t easy. I often felt unprepared, overwhelmed, and deeply worried about making the wrong choice.

Those experiences didn’t just pass through me. They shaped me.
They taught me that if I didn’t take charge of my life, no one else would.
They taught me that planning ahead was not optional, but it was necessary.
They taught me that understanding everything was the only way to feel secure.

And so, control became my language of safety.
When I don’t understand something, I need answers.
When the future feels unclear, I try to map it out.
When uncertainty shows up, I try to shrink it into something manageable.

My husband, in his calm and grounded way, often tells me,
“Live for today.”
“Everything will sort itself out.”

And I know he means well. I know there is truth in his words.
But for someone whose past was shaped by unpredictability, those phrases don’t always bring comfort. They don’t quiet the anxiety about the future. Because for me, the future has never been something I could simply trust.

And now, I find myself in another season of uncertainty.

I am one week away from welcoming my second baby.
I am finishing the assignments of my graduate program.
I am preparing to go on unpaid leave from my job.

It feels like a race against time, but strangely, that’s not what worries me.

Those things are planned.
They are within my control.

What feels heavy are the things that are not.

I don’t know how my postpartum journey will look this time.
I don’t know if I’ll be ready, mentally or physically, to return to work.
I don’t know how it will feel to place my child in daycare when he’s only three months old.
And I don’t know if I even have other options.

What makes it feel so heavy is that I am searching for answers before they’re ready to be found.

I want clarity.
I want a plan.
I want to feel prepared for every possible outcome.

But the truth is..some answers don’t exist yet.

And maybe this is where I’m being stretched the most.
To accept that not everything needs to be figured out today.
That sometimes, the most grounded thing I can do is wait… and allow life to unfold a little more before I try to define it.

Because I know this:
Things will look different after my baby arrives.
My priorities may shift.
My capacity may change.
And options that feel invisible right now… may reveal themselves with time.

So maybe this moment isn’t about having all the answers.
Maybe it’s about trusting that I don’t need them yet.
Maybe healing is learning that control was something I needed to survive, but not something I need to hold onto so tightly forever.

There are things I can control:
My effort.
My decisions.
The way I show up for myself and my family.

And there are things I cannot:
Timing.
Outcomes.
The unfolding of life in ways I cannot predict.

And maybe, just maybe, there is a quiet strength in learning the difference.
In loosening my grip, not all at once, but little by little.
In trusting that not everything unknown is unsafe.
In allowing myself to exist in the in-between… without needing all the answers.

Because for the first time, control is no longer just about survival.
It’s about choosing where to hold on—
and where to finally let go.