The One Thing We Actually Control

It was 4:30 a.m., and I couldn’t sleep. I lay tossing and turning while numbers flashed through my mind. My 7-minute-per-kilometre pace was too slow for my upcoming HYROX event. The 15% contribution from the outdoor team won’t cover their costs at my company. And it’s mid-February—I’ve posted two essays instead of the scheduled six.

Then my thoughts went deeper. Am I making progress toward the things I want in my life? Will I be able to hike at 90? Will I lose my writing habit, and with it, my bridge to my inner, true self? And lately, why do I feel like I’m not enough?

I couldn’t sleep, so I got up, made coffee, and stared out the window. It was pitch black. My racing thoughts came to an abrupt end with Sassy’s meow.

Here’s what was troubling me: my life runs on numbers, and when I don’t reach them, I feel like a failure.

In truth, I’m a control freak who spends immense energy trying to control outcomes I can’t control. I want to be strong, fit, and healthy. I want to be financially independent. I want to remain curious and develop my thinking through writing, reading, and engaging with fellow thinkers.

I’ve built systems and logged countless hours toward these goals.

And yet, despite all this effort, I wake up at 4:30 a.m. feeling like I’m failing at all of it.

The Philosopher Who Won’t Let Me Rest

I’ve been reading Epictetus, the 2nd-century Stoic philosopher. His words have unsettled me: we control almost nothing. He says, “Some things are up to us, and some are not. Up to us are judgment, inclination, desire, aversion—in short, whatever is our own doing. Not up to us are our bodies, possessions, reputations, public offices—in short, whatever is not our own doing.”

Epictetus is saying that one thing is up to us: our deliberate, conscious judgments.

The problem is, I don’t want to accept this.

The Illusion I Can’t Let Go Of

I think about this in light of my health obsession. I’m thinking healthspan, not lifespan. I want to maximise the quality of my final years. I track my steps. I count macros. I optimise my sleep. Underneath all of it is this belief that if I do everything right, I can guarantee that I’ll be hiking some remote mountain when I’m 95.

But I can’t.

I can eat perfectly and get sick. My body will age no matter how many supplements I take. Somewhere deep down, I know this. Which is maybe why I’m so anxious about it all.

Epictetus says I’m trying to control the wrong thing. All my careful habits are decisions I’m making, judgments about what’s valuable. But they’re not guarantees. They never were.

What I control is something both smaller and more slippery: how I choose to think about these possibilities. Whether I let the fear of illness prevent me from living. Whether I let the inevitability of ageing poison my present.

The trouble is, when the anxiety hits at 4:30 a.m., it doesn’t feel like I’m choosing my thoughts. It feels like they’re choosing me.

The Exhaustion of It All

I’m tired of carrying the weight of wanting what I want so much. I’m tired of trying to guarantee outcomes. I’m tired of treating my body like a project I can perfect if I work hard enough.

But I don’t know how to stop.

We’ve been sold this idea that we can master our circumstances if we optimise enough, hustle enough, and self-improve enough. And I’ve bought into it. Even when I read Epictetus telling me it’s an illusion, part of me is looking for the hack, the technique, the way to master the art of not needing to master things.

I’m trying to control my need to control.

A few weeks ago, I wrote what I thought was a good article, but it didn’t get enough traction. I spent hours fretting, trying to justify why I write, reminding myself that the pure joy it gives me is the reason I write.

Epictetus would ask: “Is their attention to your article within your control?” And I’d have to admit it’s not. But then I’d check the post again to see if more people read it.

The Moments Between

There are moments, though. Brief ones.

Yesterday morning, I went for a run. My mind was quiet for once, watching the skyline and my breath. I realised I’d forgotten to worry about all the things I tend to worry about. I was there, in my body, not trying to control anything.

It didn’t last. By the time I got home, I was checking my phone, monitoring my metrics, spinning back into the familiar anxiety. But for a few minutes, I got a glimpse of what Epictetus might be pointing toward.

Maybe there’s no technique for this. Maybe it’s not something you achieve and then have. Maybe it’s more like those mindful moments when running—they come when you’re not trying to make them come. Or when I’m writing this post, listening to neoclassical music while smoking a cigar, and a few hours fly by.

I catch myself sometimes, mid-worry spiral, and I can see it happening. I can see that I’m making myself miserable over something I can’t control.

And sometimes I can let it go for a moment. Not because I’ve mastered anything, but because the effort of holding on feels heavier than the relief of letting go.

Then my mind grabs onto something else, and we’re off again.

It’s 5:30 a.m. Now

The birds are starting their chorus. The light is changing from black to deep blue.

My worries haven’t disappeared. I care about my health, my work, and how I’m perceived. I’m still trying to control things I can’t control.

But I’m sitting here, watching the light change, and for this moment, I’m not trying to fix any of it.

Epictetus was onto something, even if I can’t get there myself.

Maybe that space between stimulus and response isn’t something you find once and then have. Maybe it’s something you glimpse, lose, and keep discovering again at dawn or in the middle of ordinary moments when you’ve forgotten to be anxious about everything.

Right now, the coffee is good. The birds are singing. Sassy is curled up on my desk, and I’m smiling.

And for now, that’s enough of a place to start.

I’d be curious—do you struggle with trying to control things you can’t? How do you (or don’t you) find those moments of peace with uncertainty?