On delicate balance of control — order or surrender

We live in times where calendars stretch further than the sky, where even our leisure needs planning, and spontaneity has become an endangered species.
Control promises safety — yet quietly steals our freedom.
Too little, and life feels unmoored. Too much, and we suffocate under our own grip.
So we walk the rope, trembling between order and surrender.

There are moments when I feel like a juggler and a rope-walker rolled into one. A schedule here, a responsibility there, an expectation waiting just ahead. The rope stretches thin, taut with the weight of control.

Modern life whispers a constant message: If you can manage it all, you will be safe and successful.
Manage time. Manage money. Manage people. Manage outcomes. Even manage your own happiness as though it were a corporate project.

But life resists this over-engineering. A conversation cannot be scheduled into intimacy. A sunrise doesn’t come with a reminder alert. Healing doesn’t follow a Gantt chart. When control stretches too far, it shrinks our humanity.

And yet — abandon control altogether, and the rope snaps in the other direction. Chaos breeds anxiety. A life without any rhythm is like a violin without tuning — there are strings, but no music.

So here lies the paradox:

• Too little control → disorder.
• Too much control → distortion.

I come to realise, the art of living authentically is not to reject control, but to hold it lightly. To know the difference between control that disciplines and control that imprisons.

A poet once said, “You must learn to dance on a moving floor.” That, perhaps, is the truest picture of life. We do not control the ground beneath us — the economy shifts, relationships change, health fluctuates. But we can learn to move with rhythm, to trust that balance is not a permanent achievement but a living practice.

A river flows not by controlling every drop, but by allowing its banks to guide the current while trusting gravity to do the rest. In the same way, our principles can provide the banks, but the water — our life — must be allowed to move, to surprise, to find its own course.

Walking this tightrope is not a failure. It is the invitation of life itself. Every step is an act of humility: I cannot control everything, but I can choose how I walk today.

Authenticity is not born in the grip of control, but in the grace of balance. When we stop clutching, we start living.
Perhaps the rope is not meant to be conquered at all — only walked with grace.

Nowadays, I hold a few questions close — and I offer them gently for you to ponder too:

How do I distinguish between control that grounds me and control that suffocates me?
(Noticing the difference can itself be the first act of balance.)

Where in my life am I holding the rope too tightly?
(Is it work, relationships, health, or even self-image?)

What is one area where I can loosen my grip without fear of collapse?
(Something small — a conversation, a routine, a plan — where I can allow life to surprise me.)

---

Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

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