On how our anxious need to control life often disguises itself as “practicality” or “prayer.”

There was a time when I treated the Divine like a project stakeholder. I’d outline my goals, offer my rationale, schedule timelines in my head, and then… politely loop in the universe through prayer.

But the truth is, it wasn’t a prayer. It was a strategy session disguised as surrender.

In the quiet space of my journal or evening silence, I’d make requests, send intentions, even offer gratitude. But underneath the surface was a deep desire to manage outcomes. I wanted life to be flexible—within the limits of my expectations. I wanted the Divine to participate—within the architecture of my logic.

And when things didn’t go according to the plan I had carefully built and spiritually “sanctioned”, I’d feel confused. Hurt. Slightly betrayed.

Wasn’t I doing everything right?

It took me years—and some unplanned detours—to see what was really happening. I wasn’t placing trust. I was outsourcing control.

There is a quiet arrogance in the anxious mind, though it doesn’t appear loud. It appears diligent, responsible, practical. It appears spiritual even—because it believes in higher forces. But it still wants to decide. It wants to predict. It wants to micromanage even the Infinite.

And so, instead of truly surrendering to life’s flow, we:

• Create backup plans for divine intervention
• Pray for outcomes rather than alignment
• Use intuition like a risk-analysis tool
• Ask for signs, then demand immediate clarity
• Interpret delays as failure, and silence as rejection

We do not bow. We bargain.

The micromanagement of God is subtle. It often masquerades as wisdom. It can wear the robe of ritual, the tone of sacred intention, even the language of devotion. But if we are honest with ourselves, we will sense the tension—the underlying fear of losing control.

And fear… is not the soil where surrender blooms.

When I finally began to release the grip, the landscape of my inner life shifted. I stopped seeing the Divine as a service provider and started relating to life as a sacred unfolding. Not always predictable. Rarely comfortable. But increasingly intimate.

I stopped using prayer as a lever, and started using it as a window.

I don’t claim to have mastered surrender. Most days, I still make lists, whisper hopes, wish for certain answers. But something fundamental has changed.

Now, I hold life loosely. I ask, but I don’t insist. I prepare, but I don’t possess. And I listen more than I speak.

This new posture is less efficient. But it is more peaceful.

I no longer need to micromanage God.

And in that release, I’ve made room—for grace to arrive without needing to explain itself.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

If something lingered in your heart while reading this letter, I’d love to hear from you.