When Control Is Fear in Disguise
There was a time when I believed control was my strength.
If I could just stay organised - on top of the emails, the therapy plans, the appointments, the meltdowns - I’d hold everything together. My son, our family, myself.
But somewhere along the way, that control became a cage.
It wasn’t about being capable anymore. It was about being terrified. Terrified of missing something. Terrified of failing him. Terrified of being seen as the mother who didn’t do enough.
It took me years (and a lot of unravelling) to see that control wasn’t keeping us safe. It was keeping me scared.
As my mentor Amy Taylor-Kabbaz once said, “We don’t get mad — we get perfect.”
That line hit me like lightning. Because perfection was my armour. And beneath it was fear.
The Matrescence Shift After Diagnosis
Before my son’s diagnosis, I prided myself on being capable. Efficient. Calm in chaos.
But after diagnosis, that calm cracked. Suddenly, every decision felt monumental - the right therapy, the right preschool, the right specialist. There was no manual, no map, no margin for error.
And beneath the surface, something else was happening. I was changing.
Matrescence (the identity shift of becoming a mother) had already reshaped me once. But after diagnosis, it reshaped me again. Only this time, it didn’t feel like a becoming. It felt like coming undone.
I wasn’t just a mother anymore. I was a case manager, an advocate, an educator, an interpreter of reports and systems and silences.
I remember those early days of post-diagnosis matrescence as foggy and relentless. I’d be sitting in a meeting, nodding along, pretending I understood while silently thinking: I don’t know how to do this.
I was grieving the motherhood I thought I’d have while performing the one I now did: efficient, informed, functional. Everyone saw the organisation, not the exhaustion. The structure, not the sorrow.
And when the world shut down during Covid, the loneliness grew teeth. I didn’t even realise how much fear I was carrying until it started showing up everywhere: in my sleep, my energy, my body. I thought I was just tired. But I was in survival mode.
The Fear Beneath the Control
Control isn’t about colour-coded calendars. It’s about fear.
The fear of the unknown: If I don’t plan every step, what will happen?
The fear of failure: If I don’t get this right, my child will suffer.
The fear of judgment: If I don’t advocate hard enough, will people think I’m a bad mother?
The fear of loss: If I let go, will things fall apart?
I lived with all of them. Sharp, specific, unrelenting fears.
I was afraid no one would see what I saw in my son.
Afraid that if I didn’t find the perfect therapy, he’d fall behind.
Afraid of the whispers and the sighs and the well-meaning pity.
And underneath it all was the deepest fear of all: What if I’m not enough?
As Brené Brown says, fear and uncertainty push us into over-functioning. We start to believe that if we just do more, plan more, control more… we can prevent pain. But all it really does is exhaust us.
Control doesn’t protect us. It depletes us.
The Cost of Control
Control isn’t free. It takes its toll in quiet, hidden ways.
It shows up as burnout - the kind that makes you fantasise about being sick just to rest.
It shows up as decision paralysis - spending hours researching something you may never even use.
It shows up as disconnection - from your partner, your child, and most painfully, from yourself.
I lived in constant hypervigilance. Waiting for the next form, the next call, the next crisis.
Dr. Stuart Shanker, a self-regulation expert, reminds us that parental stress doesn’t stay contained… it ripples. Our children feel it. Not because we’re failing them, but because we’re human.
And I think that was the hardest truth to face: my son could sense my anxiety, even when I tried to hide it. He didn’t need me to be perfect. He needed me to be present.
The Paradox of Letting Go
The irony is that the more we grip, the less peace we have.
And yet when we finally loosen that grip (even just a little) something shifts.
Dr. Mona Delahooke writes that connection, not control, is what truly supports neurodivergent children. And she’s right.
For me, the turning point came in a moment so ordinary it almost went unnoticed. My son was by the river, throwing sticks into the water. Over and over. No goal. No lesson. Just joy.
And I realised… he didn’t need fixing. He needed witnessing.
He needed me to see him, not shape him.
To love him, not manage him.
Letting go didn’t mean letting him down. It meant finally meeting him where he was.
In that stillness, something softened. And in that softness, something healed.
Learning to Loosen the Grip
Letting go isn’t about abandoning control entirely. It’s about loosening it… gently, intentionally.
Here are a few small ways to begin:
Pause & Check In → When you feel that urge to control, ask: Is this fear talking?
Shift the Question → Instead of How do I control this?, ask What’s the next right step?
Build Self-Trust → Remember everything you’ve already navigated… you are capable.
Let Go in Small Ways → Choose one thing this week you can release, even slightly.
I still catch myself gripping too tightly… especially around school. I want so badly for the system to see what I see in him. But pushing harder doesn’t always create change. Sometimes it just drains me.
Now, I’m learning to pause. To breathe. To trust.
Not the system, but myself… and him.
Because the truth is: we don’t need to fight every battle to be okay.
Fear Is Love With Nowhere to Land
Letting go is not the same as giving up.
It’s the practice of creating space - for ourselves, for our children, for what might unfold when we stop gripping so tightly.
If I could go back to those early days… the ones held together by spreadsheets, caffeine, and silent tears… I wouldn’t tell myself to relax. I’d tell myself the truth.
This is hard because it’s hard.
Because the systems aren’t built for us.
Because you’re carrying more than anyone should.
Because you love so deeply it hurts.
And also… you’re not broken. You’re human.
Fear is love with nowhere to land. And control? It’s just fear in disguise.
So maybe the work isn’t about letting go of control completely.
Maybe it’s about giving that love somewhere to rest.
Right here.
Right now.
In this breath.
You’ve done enough for today.
You are enough for today.
And you are not alone.
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Next step
If this story resonates, you might find my free guide The First 30 Days especially grounding — a gentle companion for those early weeks after diagnosis. Download it here →
