“Surrender is not about giving up, it’s about letting go of the illusion of control.” ~Judith Orloff
Watching my mother lose her memory while I lost mine was a cruel prospect for my future—until I learned that stress, not genetics, was writing my story.
It was 3:47 a.m.—again. I had been awake since 2:13 and slept maybe ten minutes before that.
This has been my pattern for years: wake up shortly after falling asleep, check the clock, lie there disappointed.
Wake up again, check the clock, review the previous day and plan for the next day.
But this night was different. That night, lying in the dark, I had a thought that sent panic to my heart: What if I never sleep again? Sleep is important for brain health, and I end up dumbing myself down.
My mother suffered from dementia in her early seventies. And here I was in my fifties, perimenopausal, unable to sleep and already forgetting the words and names I used to use every day.
Insomnia didn’t start overnight. He crept in slowly. Starting with sleep disorders due to caring for newborns, then with difficulty falling asleep during perimenopause.
Stress hormones fueled my days working in a busy clinic and raising my family. When night finally came, I was completely hooked.
By the time I turned fifty, I could last twenty minutes of interrupted sleep at night. I forgot what it feels like to be rested.
I tried changing my diet and taking natural sleep supplements. I saw sleep specialists and tried various medications. Cognitive behavioral therapy and hormone therapy helped slightly.
As time went on, I couldn’t recognize the faces of my neighbors. Sometimes it was hard to remember my family’s name and I lost my concentration in the middle of important lectures.
With insomnia and worry about my memory loss, I lashed out at my partner and found myself lost in periods of rage. I didn’t see a way out.
And then my mother was diagnosed with dementia.
We have been separated for almost twenty years. I received the news of his illness as a phone call from a concerned neighbor who lives on the other side of the country.
Mom lost her memory. And I was afraid of losing mine.
I didn’t choose control. It’s something I inherited.
When I was a child, with my mother, I felt like I was walking on eggshells. She was a single mother and her mental health was so precarious that she controlled everything and everyone just to get through the day.
I’ve learned that when things seem emotionally unstable or beyond my capabilities, control can provide a measure of stability and strength.
So when the mood changed and the sleepless nights started piling up, along with my mother’s diagnosis and my fear of my own memory, I did what I always did. I controlled it.
I made a list of everything. I told my family exactly how to do things and complained and blamed them when they didn’t do it my way.
I stuck to strict daily routines and lost all flexibility. If I could keep all the people where I needed them to be and do everything I needed them to do, I could feel pretty safe. Then maybe I’d go back to sleep and everything would be fine.
But I never asked myself Does this really work? Do I feel more emotionally stable? do I sleep better? I never asked if it would bring me closer to the people I love.
This control was on autopilot, completely beneath my awareness.
And it was exhausting. Not only physically – although the lack of sleep was depressing – but also emotionally.
Control creates distance. When you’re busy managing everyone else’s life, you can’t be present for your own.
I remember the night I yelled at my kids because they needed help with their homework. One cried and the other stopped. There was simply nothing to give them. I couldn’t control how they learned in school and it left me down and frustrated. And I heard myself yelling at them the way my mother used to yell at me—the same words, the same tone, the same anger.
That was heartbreaking.
Meanwhile, I was supposed to be taking care of my mother on the other side of the country—the woman who first taught me this pattern. The woman I was estranged from for most of my adult life.
I remember exactly when I realized that mindfulness wasn’t just something I did in my yoga class; it was the lifeline I was looking for.
I was introduced to a mindfulness based stress reduction course to support my clients. One of the first exercises was to notice what was happening while lying still and scan your body.
It was amazing to be quiet. I had to “do it”! Fortunately, the container of this program was a safe place for me to explore this pattern, and I learned to notice myself and be compassionate with myself in order to keep busy and do things.
Many weeks later, we were given an exercise to notice how we automatically react to stressful situations in our daily lives. I discovered a striking pattern: control.
Whenever I felt anything, even slightly challenged, I organized everyone and everything to make me feel safe. I realized that I learned this way of coping as a child and didn’t think about whether it was still useful. I continued with this coping strategy as usual.
When I saw myself yelling at my kids over something as trivial as needing help with their homework, I knew I was no longer in control.
I was ready to let go and learn some more useful tools.
When I finally let go of seeing my insomnia as a catastrophic problem that I needed to control, my sleep improved dramatically. My body finally remembered that it was safe to sleep.
My memory has also recovered. I still forget things sometimes and probably always will. Not because I’m developing dementia, but because I’m human.
When I notice that my memory is slipping, it’s simply a sign that I’m overworked. No more spirals. I do not catastrophize every forgotten word or memory.
The fear of losing my memory did more damage than any actual memory problems. And when I stopped feeding that fear with sleepless nights and guilt for dealing with stress normally, a mental space opened up.
The first time I sat with my mother and she didn’t know who I was, something unexpected happened. Instead of being hurt or angry, I just felt my… presence.
I could see he was confused. Frustrated. To do the best he can with what he has, as I did.
We were both running the same program – manage what you can, be alert and keep going. He learned it, passed it on to me, and here we are—both losing control in different ways.
The difference is that I have the privilege of consciously relinquishing control and trying to meet life with presence and compassion for myself.
There is no point in bringing up the past or having a big conversation about our relationship. I just had to be here with her as much as I could.
And somehow that was enough.
Here’s what I learned:
1. Control is fear wearing the mask of competence.
When I tried to control everything and everyone, I thought I was responsible, proactive, caring. I was actually scared.
And the control held me back from what I value most: connection—with myself, those I cared about most, and the present moment.
2. Our body does not know the difference between a real and a perceived threat.
My nervous system was in constant survival mode—not because I was in danger, but because I was convinced I might be.
Learning to control my nervous system wasn’t about positive thinking or willpower. It was about seeing a pattern that no longer served me and making a conscious decision to release it to teach my body that it was safe.
3. You cannot criticize yourself in order to heal.
All the harsh judgments I gave myself for being irritable, losing my temper, blaming others, or trying to control others only caused more stress. Compassion—genuine, deep compassion for my exhausted self—was what finally made change possible.
4. The patterns are inherited, but we can choose otherwise.
My mother taught me to be in charge because it helped her feel safe. I’m not angry about it anymore.
But I don’t even have to keep it. It doesn’t belong to me. Just because I understand where a pattern comes from doesn’t mean I’m stuck.
I can appreciate what I learned while choosing something else.
5. We cannot influence the results, but we can choose how we meet each moment.
I can’t guarantee you won’t get dementia. I can’t sleep perfectly every night.
But now I can be here, I can be present with those I care about deeply. I missed him so much in those decades that I worried about the future.
I refuse to miss any more.
Last week I woke up to look at the clock and it was 3:47. It’s an old habit.
But instead of laying there cataloging my fears and making a list of how I was going to fix everything, all I noticed was my breath. He felt the weight of the blanket. I heard my partner breathing next to me.
And I went back to sleep.
This is what I got: not perfect sleep, not perfect memory, not a perfectly healed relationship with my mother before she died. But the ability to be here with all of this.
Without the weight of control. Without the spiral of fear.
Only here. Right now. As far as I can tell.
I thought I had to control everything to be safe. As it turns out, I just had to let go and be present.
And that changed everything.
What do you think about the annealing “turning around almost immediately” to something like “much improved”? This can make it seem more realistic and prevent readers from getting discouraged if their progress is slower.
