We are the authors of our little stories — crafting narratives that make sense of our wounds, justify our decisions, and shield us from discomfort. We wear them like armor. We protect them with our pride, our identities, our curated Instagram feeds, our over-scheduled calendars. But sooner or later, the truth surfaces: control is an illusion, and our stories — however beautiful or convincing — were never meant to save us.

 

We try so hard to make life go the way we want. We strategize, hustle, plan it all out — believing that if we just stay one step ahead, we’ll finally feel safe. We curate the perfect relationship, the successful career, the filtered version of who we think we should be. But underneath it all is fear — fear of the unknown, fear of not being enough, fear of being exposed as fragile and flawed. We manipulate outcomes, people, and even our own emotions, thinking we’ve mastered the game… only to watch it fall apart again and again.

 

The disappointment hits like a wave. Not because we failed, but because we were never meant to control the ocean. We were meant to learn how to float.

 

Control is a temporary high. It tricks us into believing that if we just do more, plan more, or be more perfect, we can avoid pain. But life is not a test to be aced. It is a lesson to be lived. And the real work — the deep, soul-shaking, heart-opening work — begins when we surrender the script and meet life where it actually is.

 

We cling so tightly to the roles we’ve been playing: the strong one, the achiever, the survivor. We tell ourselves these masks are our power — when in truth, they’re our prisons. Real strength isn’t about who can hold it together the longest — it’s about who can soften, who can be honest, who can sit in the storm without pretending it’s sunny.

 

When we finally let go — not in defeat, but in trust — we begin to witness life in its raw, exquisite beauty. We begin to hear our intuition again. We remember we are not here to control the wind, but to learn how to sail. Freedom doesn’t come from gripping tighter — it comes from loosening the grip on who we think we should be, and allowing the truth of who we are to rise. You don’t have to earn your worth. You were always worthy — not for what you’ve achieved, but for who you are at your core.

 

You were never here to impress anyone. You were never here to win the race. You came to experience, to learn, to shine — authentically and messily and truthfully. The more you cling to the version of you that was designed to survive, the more painful it becomes to remember who you actually are.

 

Let go of the story. Let go of the mask. The truth of you — your light, your purpose, your essence — has always been enough.

 

Yours in surrender,

Ava