“Surrender is not about giving up. It is about letting go of the illusion of control.” ~Judith Orloff
Watching my mother lose her memory while I was losing mine felt like a cruel preview of my future—until I learned that stress, not genetics, was writing my story.
It was 3:47 a.m.—again. I’d been awake since 2:13, and before that I’d slept maybe ten minutes.
This had been my pattern for years: wake up shortly after falling asleep, check the clock, lie there frustrated.
Wake again, check the clock, review the day prior, and plan the next day.
But this night was different. This night, lying in the dark, I had a thought that gripped my heart with panic: What if I never sleep again? Sleep is important for brain health, and I’ll end up with dementia.
My mother had dementia in her early seventies. And here I was at fifty years of age, in perimenopause, unable to sleep, and already forgetting words and names I typically used every day.
The insomnia didn’t start overnight. It crept in slowly. Starting with disrupted sleep from newborn care, then difficulty getting to sleep in perimenopause.
Stress hormones fueled my days working in a busy clinic and raising my family. When night finally arrived, I was completely wired.
By the time I turned fifty, I was managing on twenty minutes a night of interrupted sleep. I’d forgotten what it felt 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 were mildly helpful.
As time progressed, I couldn’t recognize the faces of my neighbors. The names of my family were sometimes difficult to recall, and I was losing my concentration in the middle of important presentations.
With the insomnia and worry about my memory loss, I was snapping at my partner and finding myself lost in periods of rage. I couldn’t see a way out.
And then my mother was diagnosed with dementia.
We’d been estranged for almost twenty years. I received the news of her illness as a phone call from her concerned neighbor on the other side of the country.
Mom was losing her memory. And I was terrified I was losing mine.
Control wasn’t something I chose. It was something I inherited.
When I was a child, being around my mother felt like walking on eggshells. She was a single mother, and her mental health was so precarious that she controlled everything and everyone just to make it through her day.
I learned that when things felt emotionally unstable or beyond my ability, control could provide some sense of stability and power.
So when the mood changes and sleepless nights started piling up, along with my mother’s diagnosis and fear about my own memory, I did what I’d always done. I controlled.
I made lists for everything. I told my family exactly how things should be done and complained and blamed when they didn’t do it my way.
I kept to strict daily routines and lost all flexibility. If I could just keep all the people where I needed them to be, doing all the things I needed them to do, I could feel safe enough. Then maybe I would sleep again, and everything would be okay.
But I never asked myself, Is this actually working? Do I feel more emotionally stable? Am I sleeping any better? I certainly never asked if this was bringing me closer to the people I love.
This controlling was on autopilot, completely below my awareness.
And it was exhausting. Not just physically—though the sleep deprivation was crushing—but emotionally.
Control creates distance. When you’re busy managing everyone else’s life, you can’t be present for your own.
I recall the night I was yelling at my children because they needed help with their homework. One was crying and the other had shut down. I just didn’t have anything left to give them. I couldn’t control how they learned in school, and I was overwhelmed and frustrated by this. And I heard myself yelling at them the way my mother used to yell at me—same words, same tone, same rage.
This was heartbreaking.
Meanwhile, I was supposed to care for my mother on the other side of the country—the woman who’d taught me this pattern in the first place. The woman I’d been estranged from 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 a lifeline I had been searching for.
I had been introduced to a mindfulness-based stress reduction course as a way to support my clients. One of the first exercises was to notice what arose while you lay in stillness and scanned your body.
It was excruciating to be in stillness. I needed to be “doing”! Fortunately, the container of this program was a safe place for me to explore this pattern, and I learned to notice and be compassionate with myself for this need to be busy and doing.
Many weeks later, we were given an exercise to notice the way we automatically reacted to stressful situations in our everyday lives. I discovered a glaring pattern: control.
When anything felt even mildly challenging for me, I would organize everyone and everything so that I could feel safe. I realized that I had learned this way of coping as a child and hadn’t considered whether it was still useful. I just habitually kept using this coping strategy.
When I saw myself yelling at my children for something as inconsequential as needing help with their homework, I knew control was no longer serving me.
I was ready to let it go and learn some more helpful 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 had finally remembered it was safe to sleep.
My memory recovered too. I still forget things sometimes, and I probably always will. Not because I’m developing dementia, but because I’m human.
When I notice my memory slipping now, it’s simply my sign that I’m overtaxing myself. I don’t spiral anymore. I don’t catastrophize every forgotten word or memory.
The fear of losing my memory was doing more damage than any actual memory problem. And when I stopped feeding that fear with sleepless nights and guilt over the way I would habitually cope with stress, 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 hurt or angry, I just felt… present.
I could see she was confused. Frustrated. Doing her best with what she had, just like I’d been doing.
We’d both been running the same program—control what you can, stay vigilant, keep going. She’d learned it, passed it to me, and now here we are—both losing control in different ways.
The difference is that I have the privilege of consciously giving up control and trying to meet life with presence and compassion for myself.
There is no point in rehashing the past or having some big conversation about our relationship. I just needed to be here now, with her, as best I was able.
And somehow, that was enough.
Here’s what I learned:
1. Control is fear wearing a mask of competence.
When I was trying to control everything and everyone, I thought I was being responsible, proactive, caring. I was actually terrified.
And control kept me from the one thing I valued most: connection—to myself, to those I cared most deeply for, and to the present moment.
2. Our bodies don’t know the difference between real threat and perceived threat.
My nervous system was in constant survival mode—not because I was in danger, but because I was convinced that I might be.
Learning to regulate my nervous system wasn’t about positive thinking or willpower. It was about seeing a pattern that wasn’t serving me any longer and consciously deciding to let it go so that I could teach my body it was safe.
3. You can’t criticize yourself into healing.
Every harsh judgment I leveled at myself for being irritable, losing my temper, blaming others, or trying to control others just added more stress. Compassion—real, deep compassion for my exhausted self—was what finally allowed change to happen.
4. Patterns get passed down, but we can choose differently.
My mother taught me to control because it helped her feel safe. I’m not angry about that anymore.
But I also don’t have to keep it. It doesn’t belong to me. Understanding where a pattern comes from doesn’t mean I’m stuck with it.
I can honor what I learned while choosing something different.
5. We can’t control outcomes, but we can choose how we meet each moment.
I can’t guarantee I won’t develop dementia. I can’t make myself sleep perfectly every night.
But I can be here now, present with those I care deeply for. I missed so much in those decades, preoccupied with worrying about the future.
I refuse to miss any more.
Just last week, I woke up to look at the clock, and it was 3:47 a.m. Old habit.
But instead of lying there cataloging fears and making a list of how I would fix everything, I just noticed my breath. Felt the weight of the blanket. Heard my partner breathing beside me.
And I fell back asleep.
That’s what I’ve gained: not perfect sleep, not perfect memory, not a perfectly healed relationship with my mother before she passed. But the ability to be here with all of it.
Without the weight of control. Without the spiral of fear.
Just here. Just now. As best I can.
I thought I needed to control everything to be safe. As it turns out, I just needed to let go and be present.
And that has changed everything.
What do you think about softening “turned around almost immediately” to something like “improved dramatically”? This might feel more realistic and prevent readers from feeling discouraged if their progress is slower.
