“Anything I can’t control is teaching me how to let go.”
~ Unknown
In many cultures, folktales serve not just as entertainment but as vessels of wisdom. One such story tells of a lion tricked into holding up a rock ledge, convinced by a jackal that it was about to collapse. The lion strains for hours, using all his strength to prevent a disaster that never arrives—only to discover, once exhausted, that the rock was stable all along. His effort, though intense, was never needed.
This story illustrates a powerful truth: much of what we attempt to control in life was never ours to manage in the first place. Whether it’s the emotions of others, the outcome of events, or the pace at which people grow or change, these are often the metaphorical rocks we exhaust ourselves trying to hold up—only to realise later they were never going to fall.
Control is a deeply rooted instinct. It can disguise itself as responsibility, care, ambition, or love. Yet when control becomes overreach, it can lead to burnout, disconnection, and unnecessary suffering. Letting go is not about apathy or passivity—it’s about redirecting our energy toward what is truly within our sphere of influence: our thoughts, our actions, and our growth.
This shift in mindset can be especially powerful in relationships. The impulse to fix, advise, or intervene often stems from a genuine desire to help. However, unsolicited solutions can feel like pressure, not support. True compassion sometimes means stepping back—holding space without trying to steer the outcome. This approach honors the other person’s autonomy and fosters trust and resilience.
In parenting, leadership, and caregiving roles, this lesson is even more profound. Support does not always mean action; sometimes it means presence. Sometimes it means allowing others—even young children—the room to process emotions and experiences on their own terms, while offering steady, non-intrusive support nearby.
Letting go of control also means relinquishing the belief that we are responsible for keeping everything in place. It involves grieving the illusion of control and embracing the freedom that comes with surrender. Far from being weak, this kind of surrender requires strength. It means choosing to invest in what can actually be shaped: one’s values, choices, and responses.
Even creative work can fall prey to control. Artists, writers, and thinkers often carry the burden of trying to “make a difference” or shift public narratives through their craft. While these aims are noble, they can also become sources of internal pressure. The creative process flourishes more freely when it is rooted in authenticity rather than outcome.
Finally, it’s important to understand that surrender is not the same as giving up. It is the act of aligning with reality, of recognising where influence ends and acceptance begins. This doesn’t mean abandoning hope or effort—it means acting with clarity and grace and then releasing attachment to the result.
Love, too, benefits from this wisdom. Love that is conditional, controlling, or overly structured becomes rigid. Love that allows space, that adapts, that waits—this is the love that sustains. It is not diminished by uncertainty; rather, it is strengthened by trust.
In embracing these principles, there is both grief and liberation. Grief for the time and energy spent holding up what was never ours, and liberation in realising we are not required to carry everything. By letting go, we create room for peace, presence, and genuine connection—with ourselves and with others.
Letting go is not a single act, but a practice—ongoing, imperfect, and deeply human. And in that practice, we find not just relief, but a quiet kind of power: the freedom to live fully, without the need to hold the world in place.