Letting Go of Control: What Relationships Have Taught Me

Let me start by saying this clearly: I am not a relationship expert. I’m a therapist, yes—but I’ve also dated, loved, and lost. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve clung too tightly. I’ve tried to bend people into shapes that better fit my world, often at the cost of losing pieces of myself in the process.

In my 20s, I spent far too much time trying to control the people I loved. I thought if I could just reason with them, help them see what I saw, maybe they would change. Maybe they would love me differently. More safely. More predictably. But what I learned—slowly and painfully—is this: people only change if they want to. And sometimes? They don’t want to. And that’s okay.

It took me years to accept that someone else’s behavior doesn’t always need to make sense to me. Their choices speak for them, just as mine speak for me. I used to believe love meant shaping someone into the version I needed, but love—real, grounded love—means letting people be who they are. That includes the freedom to walk away if who they are doesn’t align with who you need.

Even now, being married, I stay connected to friends who are navigating the wild terrain of dating. Their stories remind me how complex relationships can be—romantic and platonic. Yet when a friendship ends, society gives us space to grieve without labeling us failures. But when a romantic relationship ends, particularly one involving a co-parent or spouse, we often carry the heavy weight of shame.

When the relationship with my daughter’s father ended, I internalized it as a deep failure. Not just as a partner, but as a mother. As a woman. I replayed all the moments I tried to control—You can’t go out with those friends. You shouldn’t talk to them. I thought I was protecting our relationship. I thought I was protecting us. But really, I was trying to protect myself from uncertainty, from vulnerability, from feeling out of control.

Looking back, I realize—who was I to make those decisions for someone else? Maybe those nights out with friends were his way of coping. And there I was, sitting at home, stewing in resentment because I felt unheard, disrespected, and most of all, powerless.

Now at 35, I see things so differently. We often confuse love with possession. We want our partners to think like us, dress like us, react like us. We believe if we love them well enough—if we just do all the right things—they’ll finally give us what we need. But here’s the truth: they probably won’t. And that doesn't mean you're unlovable or broken. It just means you can’t control another person. Period.

What you can control is yourself—your emotions, your reactions, your boundaries. And when someone’s actions repeatedly hurt you or don’t align with your values, you get to make a decision. That’s where your power lives—in your choice to stay, to leave, to grow, to let go.

When we internalize the end of a relationship as a personal failure, we give away too much power. A relationship doesn’t succeed or fail based on one person’s effort. It’s a shared experience, full of unpredictable variables. It’s a living, breathing experiment in human connection. And humans? We’re gloriously complex.

At the end of the day, you are a whole human being—worthy, dynamic, evolving. You have dreams, needs, goals. So does your partner. And sometimes, those dreams no longer walk in the same direction.

If the relationship ends, let it be a lesson, not a life sentence. Let it be a beautiful chapter in your story, not the entire book. And let that person live their life, so you can fully live yours.