“Surrender is not giving up, it’s giving up the illusion of control.” ~Judith Orloff
Watching my mother lose her memory while she was gone seemed like a cruel preview of my future—until I learned that stress, not genetics, was writing my story.
It was 3:47 am — again. I had been awake since 2:13, and I had maybe ten minutes of sleep before that.
This has been my pattern for years: wake up shortly after falling asleep, look at the clock, go to bed frustrated.
Wake up again, look at the clock, review the previous day and plan for the next day.
But this night was different. This night, lying in the dark, I had a thought that gripped my heart with terror: 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, in perimenopause, unable to sleep, and already forgetting the words and names I normally use every day.
Insomnia didn’t start overnight. Entered slowly. Starting with disturbed sleep from newborn care, then sleep difficulties in perimenopause.
Stress hormones fueled my days working in a busy clinic and raising my family. When night finally came, I was completely wired.
By the time I was fifty, I was managing twenty minutes of sleep disruption a night. I had forgotten what it felt like to rest.
I tried changing my diet and taking natural sleep supplements. I saw sleep specialists and tried different medications. Cognitive behavioral therapy and hormone therapy were mildly helpful.
As time progressed, I could no longer recognize the faces of my neighbors. It was sometimes difficult to remember my family’s name, and I was losing my concentration in the middle of important presentations.
With insomnia and anxiety about my memory loss, I lashed out at my partner and lost myself in fits of rage. I could see no way out.
And then my mother was diagnosed with dementia.
We were separated for almost twenty years. I learned of his illness through a phone call from his concerned neighbor on the other side of the country.
Mother was losing her memory. And I was afraid that I was losing mine.
Control was not something I chose. It was something I inherited.
When I was a kid, being around my mom 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 get through her day.
I’ve learned that when things feel emotionally unstable or beyond my control, control can provide some stability and strength.
So when the mood changed and the sleepless nights began to pile up, with fears about my mother’s diagnosis and my own memory, I did what I always did. I controlled
I made lists for everything. I told my family how things should be done and complained and blamed when they didn’t do it my way.
I followed a strict daily routine and lost all flexibility. If I can put all the people where they need to be, I can feel safe enough to do all the things I need them to do. Then maybe I’d sleep again, and everything would be fine.
But I never ask myself, Does this actually work? Do I feel more emotionally stable? Am I sleeping better? I certainly never questioned whether it was bringing me to the people I loved.
This control was on autopilot, completely beneath my awareness.
And it was exhausting. Not just physically—though the sleep deprivation was crushing—but mentally.
Creates control distance. When you’re busy managing everyone else’s life, you can’t be present for yourself.
I remember the night I was yelling at my kids because they needed help with their homework. One was crying and the other was closed. I just had nothing left to give them. I couldn’t control how they learned in school, and I was overwhelmed and frustrated by it. And I myself heard them scream the way my mother used to scream at me – the same sound, the same tone, the same anger.
This was heartbreaking.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the country I was supposed to be taking care of my mother—the woman who taught me this pattern in the first place. The woman I was estranged from for most of my adult life.
I remember exactly when I realized that mindfulness wasn’t 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 as a way to support my clients. One of the first exercises was to notice what happened as you scanned your body while lying still.
The silence was painful. I needed to “do”! Fortunately, this program holder was a safe place for me to explore this pattern, and I learned to notice and empathize with myself for this preoccupation and need to work.
Several weeks later, we were given an exercise to notice how we automatically react to stressful situations in our daily lives. I discovered a brilliant pattern: control.
When something seemed mildly challenging for me, I organized everyone and everything so that I could feel safe. I realized that I had learned this way of coping as a child and had not considered whether it was still effective. I habitually used this coping strategy.
When I found myself yelling at my kids for something as unnecessary as needing homework help, I knew that control was no longer serving me.
I was ready to let it go and learn some more helpful tools.
When I finally saw 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 returned. I still forget things sometimes, and I probably always will. Not because I’m developing dementia, but because I’m human.
When I notice that my memory is slipping now, it’s just a sign that I’m overtaxing myself. I no longer spiral. I don’t regurgitate every forgotten word or memory.
My fear of memory loss was doing more harm than any actual memory problem. And when I stopped feeding that fear with sleepless nights and guilt as the way I habitually dealt with stress, mental space opened up.
The first time I sat down with my mother and she didn’t know who I was, something unexpected happened. Instead of being hurt or angry, I just felt…present.
I could see he was confused. disappointed Doing the best he could with what he had, just like I was doing.
We’re both running the same program – control what you can, be careful, carry on. He learned it, sent it to me, and now here we are—both losing control in different ways.
The difference is that I have had the opportunity to consciously let go of control and try to fill life with presence and compassion for myself.
There is no point in rehashing the past or making a big deal about our relationship. I needed to be here now, with her, as much as I could.
And somehow, that was enough.
Here’s what I learned:
1. Control is fear masked by competence.
When I was trying to control everything and everyone, I thought I was responsible, proactive, caring. I was actually scared.
And control takes me away from the one thing I value most: connection—to myself, to those I care deeply about, and to the present moment.
2. Our body does not know the difference between real threat and perceived threat.
My nervous system was constantly in survival mode – not because I was in danger, but because I was sure I might be.
Learning to control my nervous system wasn’t about positive thinking or willpower. It’s about seeing a pattern that’s no longer serving me and making a conscious decision to let it go so I can teach my body that it’s safe.
3. You can’t criticize yourself for healing.
Each tough decision I equated to being irritable, losing my temper, blaming others, or trying to control others added more stress. Compassion – true, deep compassion for my weary soul – is what finally allows change to happen.
4. Patterns are passed down, but we can choose differently.
My mother taught me to be in control because it helped her feel safe. I’m not angry about it anymore.
But I won’t keep it. It does not 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 that I won’t get dementia. I can’t get myself to sleep completely every night.
But I can be here now, present with those I care deeply about. I missed a lot in those decades, preoccupied with the future.
I refuse to miss anymore.
Just last week, I woke up to look at the clock, and the old habit was 3:47 am.
But instead of laying there cataloging the fear and making a list of how I was going to fix everything, I just noticed my breath. He felt the weight of the blanket. Beside me I heard my partner’s breathing.
And I fell asleep again.
What I achieved was this: not perfect sleep, not perfect memory, not fully healed with my mother before she passed. But the power is here with all.
Without weight control. Without the spiral of fear.
Just here. just now as best as i can
I thought I had to control everything to be safe. As it turns out, I just need to go and be present.
And it changed everything.
What do you think about softening something like “dramatically improved” to “turn around almost immediately”? This can feel more realistic and prevent readers from feeling discouraged if progress is slow.
