This is Lesson 12 in my 40 Lessons in 40 Years series—reflections on what healing has taught me about motherhood, recovery, and returning to myself.
This one is for the mother who feels the clamp before she even knows why.
The one who double-checks the lunchbox.
Who mentally tallies cupcakes at birthday parties.
Who calls it “being responsible” but knows it feels more like fear.
What if control isn’t the enemy… but a protector who’s tired?
What if curiosity could do what control never could?
I thought control was keeping me safe. It turns out curiosity was.
Control didn’t start as vanity for me.
It started as prevention.
Preventing regret.
Preventing comments.
Preventing “going too far.”
Preventing that familiar drop in my stomach when I realized I’d eaten something I couldn’t un-eat.
Control lived in my jaw. In my calendar. In the way my mind ran ahead of my body like a frantic event planner.
It was the voice that said:
If we just do this right, nothing bad will happen.
And for a long time, I believed her.
Because when your body is a trauma site—
a place you don’t fully trust,
a place that holds memories you can’t name yet—
control can feel like the only adult in the room.
So I built safety out of numbers.
I noticed calories the way other people notice sunsets.
I counted. Measured. Planned.
I “earned” rest with movement.
I managed hunger like it was a fire that could spread.
It wasn’t cozy safety.
It was hypervigilance dressed up as discipline.
And for a while… it worked.
Or at least it felt like it worked.
It gave me the illusion of steadiness—like if I could grip the edges of life tightly enough, nothing would fall apart.
Then motherhood arrived.
And motherhood is many things.
But controllable… is not one of them.
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The Part of Me Who Packs Safety into Lunchboxes
I didn’t notice her at first.
She blended in with “responsibility.”
With being “on top of things.”
With being a good mom.
She woke up before the coffee finished brewing.
She stood at the counter holding two snack options—comparing them like they carried moral value.
Is this too sugary?
Is this enough protein?
Will this keep her full… or make her want more?
Will this create a craving?
Will this become a problem?
She didn’t just pack lunch.
She calculated outcomes.
She watched how much cereal was poured into the bowl—not casually, but with that subtle tightening behind the ribs. She clocked who asked for seconds. Who didn’t. Who ate fast. Who left crusts.
And she told herself she was being attentive.
But underneath it was something else:
If I can manage this right, nothing will spiral.
She didn’t only want to control my body.
She started wanting to control theirs, too.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was terrified.
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Control as a Protector
If I could name her now, I’d call her The Controller.
She’s the part of me that still believes:
If we can just do this “right,” we’ll be safe.
She’s best friends with my eating disorder—not because she loves suffering… but because she loves certainty.
She thinks safety is something we can manufacture:
by packing the “perfect” lunch
by keeping “unsafe” foods out of the house
by staying ahead of hunger before it turns urgent
by staying one step ahead of chaos
by managing bodies, portions, appetites, outcomes
In the moment, she’s persuasive.
She sounds like wisdom.
She says:
This is how we prevent regret.
This is how we protect them.
This is how we protect us.
This is what good moms do.
But when I follow her long enough, I can feel it:
Not safety.
A prison.
Rigid rules.
Shrinking rooms.
A life organized around fear.
No space for living.
No space for trust.
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When Control Starts to Cost Us
Control always asks for more.
More vigilance.
More monitoring.
More mental math.
More energy we don’t have.
And it doesn’t stay contained to food.
It leaks into motherhood:
The way we go a little too bright when they ask for seconds.
The way we pause before we pass the bread basket.
The way we “casually” suggest something else because the fear is rising, and we don’t know what to do with it.
Kids may not have language for it…
…but they feel the temperature shift.
They sense when a meal becomes a test.
And somewhere inside them, a small question can form:
Is my hunger safe here?
Are my needs too much?
Do I have to get it right to be loved?
That realization devastated me.
Because I didn’t become a mother to pass down fear.
And yet—there she was.
My Controller.
Trying to keep everyone “safe.”
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A Moment I Wish I Could Unsee
I remember my daughter’s birthday.
The kitchen smelled like vanilla and candles. Balloons bumped against the ceiling. Someone had put on music that made the house feel like a party.
And there she was—my girl—standing on a chair so she could blow out the candles.
She was beaming.
And when she leaned over her cupcake—Funfetti with thick icing—she took a bite like it was the most normal, holy thing in the world.
Sprinkles stuck to her lips.
Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second like she was savoring joy itself.
And I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Not because of her.
Because of what was happening inside me.
My nervous system lit up like a fire alarm.
My mind started tallying what she’d already had that day:
Cake at school.
Candy from a friend.
Juice.
Now this.
The Controller stepped forward so fast she practically shoved me out of the way.
That’s too much sugar.
You need to say something.
If you don’t teach her now, it’ll be too late.
This is how it starts.
I could feel the words rising in my throat—those familiar ones dressed up as care:
“Maybe just half.”
“Let’s save some for later.”
“Do you really need all that frosting?”
My tongue pressed hard against the back of my teeth.
My smile looked normal.
But my body was braced like we were in danger.
And in the middle of a birthday song—of sprinkles and laughter and my child being a child—
I realized something that made my stomach drop:
Control had turned joy into threat.
That was my turning point.
Not because I suddenly stopped being triggered…
…but because I finally saw what control was costing us.
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How She Learned Her Job
Looking back, I understand why The Controller rose up.
She wasn’t born out of vanity.
She was born out of vulnerability.
She showed up when the world felt unpredictable.
When my needs felt inconvenient.
When being “easy” felt safer than being honest.
When my body became a story people commented on, managed, corrected.
Control became a language I used to ask for safety—
without having to ask for anything at all.
And in pregnancy… oh, she got loud.
Because pregnancy is the ultimate surrender.
A body changing without permission.
A hunger that doesn’t ask politely.
A scale that can feel like a verdict.
A belly that grows whether or not your mind agrees.
So she tried to take the wheel:
Track it. Manage it. Keep it contained. Stay ahead.
And postpartum?
When sleep disappeared, and hormones surged, and my nervous system felt paper-thin—
She tightened her grip.
Because when everything feels like too much, control promises relief.
Even if it’s counterfeit.
And then there was feeding.
Sitting in the dim light at 2 a.m., a baby latched to my body, my shirt damp, my eyes burning with exhaustion.
Everyone said, “Just trust your body.”
But my body had never felt like something I could just trust.
Was the baby getting enough?
Was I eating enough?
Too much?
Was my milk supply tied to what I had for dinner?
Was my hunger a sign of healing… or losing control?
I googled more than I slept.
I tracked ounces.
Tracked minutes.
Tracked my own intake like it might determine whether my child would thrive.
Because if I could just manage this perfectly—
if I could just get it right—
then nothing bad would happen.
And when my body softened postpartum, when my jeans didn’t fit, and my stomach felt unfamiliar—
Control whispered:
At least fix this.
At least shrink something.
At least regain ground.
Even when I was holding life in my arms,
I was still negotiating with my own.
I wasn’t just feeding my baby.
I was trying to feed my fear into silence.
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Curiosity Walks In
The shift didn’t happen in one brave, dramatic moment.
It happened in small pauses.
Like the day my child asked for more pasta and I felt the clamp.
The quick calculation.
The urge to redirect.
The bright voice I could hear myself about to use:
“Maybe let’s have some fruit instead?”
And I caught it.
Not the behavior.
The fear.
And instead of obeying The Controller… I turned toward her.
Not with shame.
Not with a fight.
With curiosity.
Oh.
There you are.
And for the first time, I didn’t treat her like the enemy.
I treated her like a protector with tired eyes.
A part of me who has been working overtime for years.
And I said—internally, gently:
I know why you’re here.
You’re trying to keep us from being hurt.
But we don’t have to live in fear to be safe.
Curiosity didn’t erase her.
It softened her.
Because curiosity doesn’t shove parts away.
Curiosity makes room.
Curiosity asks better questions than control ever could:
What feels unsafe right now?
What am I afraid will happen?
Is this about my child… or my past?
What does my nervous system actually need—not what it demands?
And that’s where the real healing began.
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What Curiosity Gives Us That Control Never Could
Control wants certainty.
Curiosity offers connection.
Control says: Clamp down.
Curiosity says: Come closer.
Control tries to prevent discomfort.
Curiosity grows our capacity to survive it.
Curiosity lets us parent from the present, not the past.
It helps us separate:
my child’s appetite from my old fear
my child’s body from my adolescent shame
their needs from the story I was told about mine
And that matters—because our kids don’t need perfect.
They need safe.
And safety isn’t built through control.
It’s built through attunement.
Repair.
Flexibility.
Trust.
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A Small Practice of Repair
Now, when The Controller rises—when I feel that familiar tightening, that urgency to manage—I try to meet her like she’s real.
Because she is.
I picture her hovering behind me at the counter, clipboard in hand, heart racing.
And I say:
Thank you for trying to protect us.
I know you’re scared.
But I’m the one in charge now.
We can be safe without being rigid.
Sometimes she doesn’t like it.
Sometimes she panics.
But sometimes…
she exhales.
And in that tiny exhale, I feel it:
A different kind of safety.
Not the clenched kind.
The connected kind.
The kind that comes from being with myself.
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For the Mother Who’s Tired of the Prison
If control has been your survival strategy, it makes sense.
If control has been how you’ve coped with fear, it makes sense.
If your eating disorder handed you a blueprint for certainty, it makes sense.
But control is not the same as care.
And curiosity—gentle, brave curiosity—might be the first key that unlocks the door.
Not because you suddenly trust everything.
But because you start trusting yourself.
Enough to stay present.
Enough to ask what’s true.
Enough to choose a softer way.
Curiosity doesn’t ask you to let go all at once.
It only asks you to pause and wonder:
What if this part of me is trying to protect me?
And what if I can protect myself differently now?
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A Gentle Invitation
If you felt your chest tighten while reading this—if you recognized the Controller in your own head—you don’t have to hold that alone.
Lift the Shame is my free support group for mothers in eating disorder recovery who are trying to break cycles without breaking themselves.
It’s a quiet, compassionate space to unpack the moments that feel “too much”—the birthday cupcakes, the pantry panic, the pregnancy fears, the daily tug-of-war between care and control.
No performance. No fixing. Just support.
If you want to join us, there’s room for you.
(Learn About Lift the Shame Here.)
With you, in it.
Crystal
This hit soo soo hard; thank you for sharing what I been experiencing for the past 14 years.