There are moments when life feels overwhelming—when the pace is too fast, the demands too many, and the sense of order we rely on slips through our fingers. These moments rarely arrive at a convenient time. They show up in the middle of busy schedules, unfinished projects, family tensions, or unexpected disruptions. And when they do, our instinct is often the same: try harder to regain control.
But what if the feeling that life is “out of control” is actually pointing us toward a deeper truth?
The truth is this: life was never fully under our control to begin with. The idea that we can perfectly manage outcomes, repair the past, or secure the future is an illusion—one we work very hard to maintain. We schedule our days carefully, organize our tasks, and construct plans that give us the comforting sense that everything is manageable. Yet all it takes is a traffic jam, an illness, or an unexpected phone call to remind us how fragile that sense of control really is.
This realization can feel unsettling. For some, it may even feel frightening. But for others, it can be unexpectedly freeing. If we cannot control everything, perhaps we can stop exhausting ourselves trying.
What we can do is slow down enough to take the present moment seriously.
We cannot fix the future from here. We cannot repair the past from now. But we can choose how we respond to what is happening in this moment. That choice—response rather than reaction—is where freedom begins to open.
I often think about this in the most ordinary of places: sitting in traffic. When we’re stuck in our cars, unable to move faster or slower than the flow allows, it’s easy to feel trapped. But what if that space isn’t a prison? What if it’s a hermitage—a quiet, contained space where we are invited simply to be?
In that moment, we can breathe. We can slow our heart rate. We can turn off the noise, the radio, the constant stream of notifications. The glowing brake lights ahead can even become a cue for prayer—each pause an invitation to lift up a concern, a name, or a quiet word of gratitude. Nothing about the traffic changes, but we do.
This practice of presence isn’t limited to the car. It becomes a way of living. When tensions rise around the breakfast table, when conversations become charged, when our impulse is to interrupt, correct, or react—we can notice what is stirring within us and ask a different question: What is this moment asking of me?
Sometimes the answer is to speak gently. Sometimes it is simply to listen. Sometimes the most faithful response is silence. This isn’t about being passive or perfect; it’s about allowing what is deepest in us to rise up, rather than letting our quickest reactions take over.
We don’t like slow. Slow makes us feel vulnerable. Slow reminds us that we are not in control. And yet, slow is often where clarity, compassion, and wisdom are found.
When we practice being present—again and again—the chaos doesn’t disappear. Life remains uncertain. But it no longer overwhelms us in the same way. We learn to tend to our own responses, even when we cannot change the circumstances around us.
This is not a path to mastery. It is not a technique for controlling life more effectively. It is an invitation to live more honestly, more gently, and more fully in the truth of each moment.
And here is the grace beneath it all: you do not have to get this right. You do not have to feel calm all the time. You do not have to manage overwhelm perfectly. Even when life feels out of control—even when you feel out of control—you remain a gift.
You are infinitely precious and unconditionally loved for the gift you already are.
Infinitely Precious 