Letting Go of Control When Control Was How I Survived
Control has always been my safety.
That didn’t start as an adult. It started when I was very young. And when I say young, I mean young. I learned early that if something was going to get handled, I was probably the one who had to handle it. If a problem was going to be fixed, I was the one who had to fix it. There wasn’t anyone I could fully trust to step in and take care of things for me.
Even as a kid, I was more grown-up than the adults around me.
So control became more than a habit. It became protection. It became how I stayed safe. For me, security and safety became the same thing. If I were in control, I would feel secure. If I felt secure, I felt safe. And if I wasn’t in control, I felt exposed and vulnerable.
That wiring stayed with me.
I carried it into adulthood. I carried it into my faith. I carried it into my relationship with God. I believed in Him, but when it came to safety, I still looked to myself. I trusted God with spiritual things, but I trusted control to keep me alive.
I’ve Fought God Over Letting Go of Control for Most of My Life.
Not always in words, but in posture. I prayed, but I also made sure I had backup plans. I believed, but I also made sure I could manage the outcomes. I said God was my refuge, but when things got tight, I looked to the world, to systems, to stability, and to my own ability to hold things together to feel safe. My hope drifted onto something other than God.
Letting go of control felt dangerous because it felt like giving up safety itself.
And now I’m in a season where God is not allowing me to live that way anymore.
Things are out of my hands. Outcomes are unclear. I can’t fix what’s happening. I can’t force stability. I can’t guarantee security the way I used to. And everything in me feels unsettled because the thing I relied on to feel safe is being taken away.
I feel unsafe.
That’s hard to admit. Letting go of control doesn’t feel spiritual to me. It feels like standing without armor. It feels like being asked to trust in a way I never learned as a child.
But God keeps bringing me back to a different truth.
“The Lord is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust” (Psalm 91:2).
Refuge means safety. Shelter. Covering. It means the place you run when you cannot protect yourself. And the hard truth I’m facing is this: as long as I look to control, systems, or circumstances to be my refuge, I will never actually feel safe.
True safety does not come from control. It comes from God.
That doesn’t mean my life will always look secure. It doesn’t mean things will always turn out the way I want. It doesn’t mean the world will look at my situation and say, “That’s safe.” But Scripture never defines safety the way the world does.
“You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble” (Psalm 32:7).
God does not promise me a risk-free life. He promises me Himself. And as long as I am in Him, walking in obedience to Him, I am safe, no matter what my circumstances look like.
That’s the shift God is asking of me.
He’s not asking me to stop caring. He’s asking me to stop treating control as my refuge. He’s teaching me that safety is not found in managing everything correctly, but in trusting the One who watches over me.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5).
That verse asks me to release the very thing I leaned on to survive. And that’s why this is so hard. Letting go of control isn’t just a spiritual exercise for me. It’s undoing a survival strategy that once kept me going.
God knows that.
He doesn’t shame me for it, but He also doesn’t let me keep living from it. Because the thing that once protected me is now keeping me from resting in Him.
When control slips away, fear rises. My body reacts. Old instincts flare. I want to step in and fix things. But God keeps meeting me there and reminding me that I am no longer alone.
“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).
Casting anxiety means choosing God as my refuge instead of control. It means placing my safety in His hands, not my own. And that feels terrifying when you’ve never had anyone else keep you safe before.
Letting go of control is happening slowly for me. In small prayers. In moments where I don’t rush to intervene. In choices where I sit with fear instead of fixing it.
This doesn’t feel strong. It feels vulnerable.
But I’m beginning to see that God is not removing my sense of safety. He’s redefining it. He’s teaching me that my refuge is not the world, not stability, not certainty, and not control. My refuge is Him. Period.
“The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand” (Psalm 121:5).
As long as I am in Him, I am safe. My life may not look secure. It may not unfold the way I want. But I am watched over. I am held. And I am no longer responsible for keeping myself alive.
This is part of the road back. It’s slow. It’s frightening. And it’s forcing me to learn what safety actually means.
And right now, that lesson is costing me more than anything else I’ve ever learned.
A Prayer of Trust and Refuge
Lord,
Your Word says that You are my refuge and my fortress, the One in whom I trust (Psalm 91:2). I confess that I’ve often looked to control, stability, and the world around me to feel safe instead of running to You.
Teach me to rest in You as my true refuge. Help me to trust that as long as I am walking with You in obedience, I am safe, even when my life feels uncertain or exposed. Remind me that You watch over me and keep me, not anyone else (Psalm 121:5).
When fear rises, and I want to take control again, help me to place my safety back in Your hands. I choose to trust You as my refuge, today and always.
Amen.