Why do I try to manage the people I love most?

A little story from a long marriage — a wobble, a breakfast conversation, a moment of connection.

Quick note: Module 3 of our spring workshop — The One Who Blesses — is live now.
This week, we’re practicing blessing the hard things. Even the things we don't like. Even the things that feel impossible.

I accidentally left the post open to all subscribers yesterday — and decided to take it as a sign. So if you’d like a glimpse inside our work together, the door is open through the end of the weekend. Here’s the door: Step inside.

This morning, over coffee, my husband and I talked about something that happened last night. A little hiccup — but the kind that could so easily have spiraled into something bigger.

We had gone out to dinner with friends — a favorite couple, his mom, and another couple (sans the wife, who was home sick). So: us, plus four.

It was a good night — easy, funny, comfortable.

Then, at the end of the evening, as we were saying our goodbyes, his mother leaned in for a hug.

"Goodbye, Mom," my husband said.

And as she was walking away, my husband — dear, sweet man — said loudly:

"Now that we've all lost our mothers, every woman of a certain age makes me feel like I'm talking to my own mom."

I gasped.

"Matthew! Wait until she's at least out of earshot."

He blinked at me, bewildered. "What? I meant it as a compliment."

A compliment to who?! I thought.

I felt eyes on me. I can't know what anyone was thinking, but in that moment, I felt ashamed — first of my husband's behavior, and then, quickly, of my own.

For a moment, it felt like I had ruined the evening.
But I hadn't.
It was a lovely dinner. Just a little hiccup at the end.

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This morning, thinking it through with my husband, I spoke my real question out loud.

“Why am I so controlling?”

"Well, you had to be, in a way," he said. "You were taking care of everyone..."

"Yes," I agreed. "Groups are especially hard for me. You’re so much more outgoing than I am — and sometimes… well, actually, often, you say things that make me uncomfortable."

“I know,” he said. “I don’t mean to . . . usually, I’m just playing around.”

We started talking about it — the way old patterns just kick in without thinking.
The way the people around us can unknowingly trigger old structures, old protections, that have nothing to do with the present moment. Structures we built long ago, to keep ourselves safe.

"For me," my husband said, "it's about bullying. Avoiding being hit. I had to be hyper-vigilant to make sure everyone was okay with everything I was doing, so I wouldn't get in trouble with my father."

For him, the survival strategy was performing. Keeping everyone laughing. Staying ahead of the mood.

For me, it was controlling. Whenever we went out, I was watching my parents — and watching other people watch them. Trying to keep people from looking at us — because we looked different. Even at home, I spent a lot of energy trying to protect my mother from my father’s sharp tongue. Trying to keep my mother from saying something — anything — that might make things worse. Trying to shield my little sisters from it all.

Looking back, I want to gather little me into my arms and just hold her. She was trying so hard. She was so earnest, and so certain that if she didn't control everything, it would all fall apart.

I want to whisper in her ear: You are not responsible for everyone's feelings. You are not in charge of how everyone behaves. You are a child. Go outside and play.

And ultimately, I have done that for little Amy. I am doing it now — she’s right here beside me as I write.

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Still, sometimes - my husband and me. . . just combust. He performs, tries to entertain. I feel embarrassed, try to control him. Put our patterns together and boom!It’s a bumpy, lumpy road.

But we're learning. And lately, we’ve been able to talk about it without blame or blowing up. Where once he would have felt accused — and I would have felt trapped — now, we can sit over coffee and see the patterns. How they crash into each other.
And behind the patterns, we can see each other.

He can see little me. I can see little him. We can also see each other all grown up. Imperfect but worthy of love.

Also, we can laugh now. Even when we tell the truth. We can bless the whole messy, human tangle of it — by welcoming it inside the circle of our love.

Even this. Even us. Especially us. Even when it gets a little hiccupy.

---

Happy Sunday, loves.

May this spring weather soften your skin.
May it open your face to the blue above and open your soles to the soil below.

Photo by Japheth Mast on Unsplash

Take your shoes off.
Wiggle your toes like earthworms.
Lie down on the ground and let it have you.
Let it sing to you and remind you who you are.

Enjoy your weekend, loves.
Play today.
~ Amy
xxoo

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Again, if you’d like to experience Module 3, the door is open until Monday . . . after that, it goes behind the paywall.