Control, Fear, and the Power of Letting Go:

A Birthday Lesson in Surrender

Wilted Roses & Open Hands: The Birthday That Taught Me to Let Go

On social media, my birthday weekend looked picture-perfect—balloon festival snapshots, blue sky, tethered flight, kayaking selfies with Frisco by my side. Looking at those photos, it’s easy to believe the story of joy. But the truth? I didn’t show the most important pictures. Because my actual birthday wasn’t picture-perfect at all.

Barry, my husband, wants to make me happy, always. For weeks he asked what I’d like to do. Every time, I told him, “Nothing special, we’ll wing it.” Honestly? Deep down, I still carry the hope that one day I’ll glide through birthdays and holidays without baggage—a light, easygoing woman. But old expectations and wounds stick around, painting these days with extra meaning.

The weekend was lovely: balloon rides, scones from our favorite bakery, a long walk with Frisco. Then came Monday—my real birthday. I woke up agitated, brushing it off while Barry “ran an errand.” I knew his secret: he buys my favorite yellow roses every birthday. He came home, arms loaded—but this year, the roses sagged and wilted, petals already falling.

Instead of being grateful, I grimaced. Complained. Watched Barry’s face fall as he turned right around to return the flowers. By then my mood was in freefall. Not even a walk with my always-happy dog Frisco could pull me out. My words kept lashing, until after the walk and incessant complaining Barry finally slammed the car door and disappeared for hours.

I sat alone in the ruins—birthday became battlefield. Here’s where recovery saved me: I picked up the phone, dialed a sober friend, and made it to a meeting. I let it all out: the dead roses, the fight, the fear beneath. Talking, connecting, being real—that’s what steadied me.

Underneath it all, it wasn’t about the flowers. It was old memories hijacking the present, whispering ancient lies: “You’re not important. You’re not loved.” That fear drove me to grip tighter for control, and I drove the day straight into the ditch.

By the time Barry returned, still wounded, I was a bit steadier. The next morning, we finally talked. I apologized. He felt terrible. But then I told him: “Actually, it was a gift.”

Because it was. That birthday handed me a mirror. I saw how much I still lean on him to prove my worth—when that validation has to come from inside and from God. I realized while I surrender easily in some places, holidays and birthdays are still my last holdout. That’s where I snatch the wheel back. Every year, steering myself into panic.

But this year, I named it. And that’s how things change.

The Circus in My Head

As a recovery guide, I know it’s not just our circumstances driving us—it’s the beliefs and thoughts we carry, silent and powerful. Unchecked, they run the show, like a ringmaster cracking the whip. My old soundtrack—the “not enough,” the “not loved,” the “not valued”—still tries to take the lead, especially on those high-stakes days.

Sometimes I see it: if I’m shaken by a small thing, it’s rarely about the thing itself. The ringleader is an old wound. My mind becomes a circus—lions roaring, cannons exploding, drums pounding, fear out front with a megaphone.

On ordinary days, I can pause and choose love. But on my birthday, the old “shoulds” hijack the spotlight. Control jumps onstage with fear riding its coattails. (I wrote more about this in an earlier post on shame and the power of “should”.)

That’s what happened with the wilted roses. Fear whispered, “You’re not important.” Instead of stepping back, I gripped tighter. I told Barry—without words or with barbed ones—“Prove I matter.” When control takes charge, love gets locked outside. And a day that “had to be perfect” toppled.

Send in the clowns.

Why Control Always Comes from Fear

And that’s where I see the deeper truth recovery keeps teaching me: control almost always grows out of fear. I grab the reins because I’m afraid—life will spin away. But decisions made from fear rarely create peace.

Fear shrinks. Fear blinds. As psychologist Harriet Lerner says, “Anxiety is contagious, but so is calm.” When I’m led by fear, I spread more fear. But if I let go, calm can catch on.

Love vs. Fear: Choosing Trust Over Control

Here’s the real recovery lesson: love is stronger than fear. When I operate from love—releasing, letting God, trusting the river—I almost always find life unfolds better than anything I could have scripted.

Marianne Williamson wrote, “Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.”

Control isn’t our native tongue—love is.

The River, the Dams, and the Masks

I’m learning I’m also the beaver, building dams in the river with fear and control, blocking my own flow. Surrender is what pulls apart the sticks—lets life move again.

It’s easy to wear a mask: show the pretty balloon photos, hide the dead flowers. Control wants everything to look perfect. But control isolates. Love connects. If I want real connection, I have to be real—even, maybe especially, on the messiest days.

Brené Brown says, “Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection.” Vulnerability is the opposite of control—and the only doorway to belonging.

The Rope in My Hand

Sometimes in meditation, I picture control as a rope gripped tight. As long as my fists are clenched, nothing else can get in. When I release—even just a little—my hands can open, ready to receive grace instead of tension. Richard Rohr says, “We do not think ourselves into a new way of living, we live ourselves into a new way of thinking.” It starts with letting go.

How I Practice Surrender

I’m still practicing, but here’s what helps:

• Pause and ask: “Am I acting from fear or love?”

• Pick up the phone or get to a meeting—connection breaks the old tape.

• Name the lie. When my wounds whisper, “You’re not loved,” I speak the truth: “I am loved. I matter.”

• Pray or meditate—picture hands opening, unclenching the rope.

  
  

Closing Reflection

I’m learning. Even wilted roses can become gifts if they show me where healing is still needed. This year, I saw it with clear eyes. Next year, maybe I’ll meet my birthday with open hands, not a white-knuckle grip.

Because surrender isn’t losing control. It’s the only way to be free.