When Control Feels Safer Than Connection
When Control Feels Safer Than Connection
A Reflection on Healing, Hurt, and the Gift of Letting Go
What is it about human nature that makes us want to take complete control of everything we do? We want to have the first word, the last word, and every word in between. We want to be the one who initiates the idea, brings it to its conclusion, and makes it look beautiful with our name written all over it.
Sometimes it looks like competence. Sometimes it looks like strength. Sometimes people applaud it. But behind that need to control, there is often a deeper story—a wound we’ve hidden so deeply we’re not even sure we can name it. I believe that for many of us—especially those who have suffered abuse—control isn’t really about power. It’s about protection. It’s about survival.
There are many ways to answer why we crave control, but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to share what I’ve learned from my own story.
I was wounded by the abuse I suffered from my mother—sexual, physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual. That may be hard to read. It’s still hard to say. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. Outside of our home, she was known as a wonderful person—kind, caring, and admired. But inside the home, it was a different story.
My father, by contrast, was a very nice man. Gentle in nature. But he didn’t protect us. Years later, he shared with me that he believed he was protecting us by staying distant—by not being alone with us or by not speaking to us much. But in reality, that silence was just another kind of absence. It left me confused and alone.
I would reach out to my mother—and she would attack. I would reach out to my father—and he would retreat. I felt invisible, unwanted, and unprotected. Over and over, those wounds reopened, and so I made a quiet, desperate vow deep inside myself: They will not hurt me again.
Even as an adult, I would find myself retreating like a wounded child. I decided I would never again risk reaching out. I would not need anyone. I would protect myself. I would be my own defender, my own comfort, my own safety net.
And so, I found a way to control my world. For me, that control came through workaholism. I poured everything into what I did. It became my fortress. My shield. And it governed my life for more than 55 years. It still shows up sometimes, though not nearly as much as it used to.
At the time, I believed a very subtle lie: People might not love me—but they will admire what I can do. So, I worked hard. I gave all I had, and then some. I poured out my time, my strength, my creativity—because I thought it was the only way I could earn acceptance. The applause, the recognition, the success—they were safer than needing someone. Because needing people had only brought me pain.
Jump ahead a few decades, and there I was. Exhausted. Numb. Working as hard as I could and still feeling like I was in a bubble—watching life go by but not really living it. I was surrounded by people, but utterly alone. I was in a crowd, yet disconnected. My heart was silently crying out to a world that seemed to keep walking by: Will somebody please love me? Please!
I realized that all of my efforts to control life had actually cost me something sacred: connection. In every relationship, I was on the outside looking in. I could joke, sing, laugh—I was the life of the party. But inside? I was terrified and hollow. I made my home on the “edges” of relationship, never truly stepping into the center of intimacy. I didn’t let others in—not really—because I was petrified they would reject me, ignore me, or wound me like before.
And then came a moment I’ll never forget.
One day, I was standing near my adopted daughter. I was overcome with love for her. I wanted so badly to reach out—to hug her, to draw her close. But I didn’t. I froze. Not because I didn’t want to love, but because I was afraid. Afraid she didn’t love me as I loved her. Afraid that if I reached out, I’d be pushed away. So I did what I had learned to do: I withheld love to avoid pain. And I regret that deeply.
That one moment—so ordinary on the outside—became a turning point. A quiet, holy moment where I could finally hear God whisper: There’s a better way, Jo. Come out of hiding.
It was the day that hope returned. A light pierced through the tunnel of my fear. I didn’t change all at once, but I made a decision that day—to stop protecting myself from the consequences of living and start embracing life as a gift again.
I began to see that life isn’t a spectator sport. We weren’t made to sit in the stands—guarded, careful, and detached. We were made to live. To get messy. To risk again. To step into relationships knowing we may be hurt but also believing we may be loved. Being born into this world is God’s invitation to participate—to play, to create, to love, to weep, to hope.
Healing doesn’t mean we never feel pain. It means we begin to understand that pain is not the end of the story. And real living comes with risk. But risks aren’t to be evaluated by the probability of success. They are measured by the value of the goal.
For me, that goal is love. It’s relationship. It’s stepping into the messy middle of life and choosing to believe that God sees me, knows me, and has not abandoned me. It’s trusting that His arms are strong enough to carry my broken places. It’s learning to receive love again—even if my voice trembles and my hands shake.
And for you, dear reader, I want to say gently:
If you’re tired of being the strong one…
If you’ve spent your whole life making sure no one ever hurts you again…
If you’ve built walls to protect yourself but now feel like a prisoner inside them…
You are not alone.
There is another way.
And it starts with the courage to believe you were never meant to carry it all on your own.
Am I Ready to Begin Healing?
Our 7 gentle, reflective questions are meant to help you pause, listen to your heart, and begin to discern where you are on your journey—and where God may be inviting you next. Click here to take the quiz
