When Being Capable Becomes A Way of Staying Safe

For a long time, being capable was one of the things I valued most about myself.

I could figure things out.

I could make the decision.

I could take care of what needed to be done.

I could work, provide, plan, anticipate, solve problems, and keep moving.

And I did.

For many years of my life, including within relationships, I lived in some version of survival mode. Being capable wasn't simply something I was proud of. It was how I made myself feel safe.

If I could handle it, I didn't have to depend on anyone else.

If I made the decision, I didn't have to worry about someone making the wrong one.

If I anticipated what might happen, perhaps I wouldn't be caught off guard.

If I stayed in control, I could protect myself.

The problem was, I became so accustomed to carrying things that I didn't always know how to let

someone else carry them.

And sometimes, without realizing it, I would resent people for not doing things I hadn't actually made room for them to do.

When Capability Becomes Control

I began noticing this within my marriage.

There were times when I wanted my husband to initiate more, plan more, decide more, take the lead more.

But at the same time, I often already had an idea of exactly how something should happen.

I would make the decision because I was capable of making it.

I would take care of something because I knew I could.

I would anticipate what needed to happen and begin handling it before he ever had an opportunity to step forward.

And then, sometimes, I would feel frustrated that I was carrying so much.

It took time for me to recognize the contradiction.

I wanted him to step forward while I was occupying all the space in front of him.

I wanted to receive while simultaneously controlling what I was willing to receive and what it needed to look like.

I wanted to trust while still maintaining enough control that I didn't actually have to trust.

That realization wasn't particularly comfortable — But it was important.

Because I began to understand that what looked like independence wasn't always freedom.

Sometimes it was protection.

The Other Side of Independence

There is tremendous value in knowing that you can take care of yourself.

I don't want to surrender that.

I don't want women to believe that being loved means becoming incapable, dependent, voiceless, or unable to stand on their own.

I value my independence.

I value my mind.

I value knowing that I can make decisions, solve problems, earn money, build something, lead, and take care of myself.

But I have started asking a different question:

What if being capable doesn't mean I have to do everything simply because I can?

That question has changed something in me.

Because there is a difference between:

I can do this myself.

and

I must do this myself.

One comes from capability.

The other can come from fear.

Hyper-independence can look remarkably similar to sovereignty from the outside.

Both can look strong. Both can look self-sufficient. Both can look decisive.

But internally, they can feel very different.

Hyper-independence can say:

I am safest when I don't need anyone.

Sovereignty, at least as I am learning to experience it, says:

I know I can take care of myself, which means I am also free to choose when I don't have to.

Learning to Receive

This has been a gradual shift in my marriage.

It hasn't been one grand moment when I suddenly decided to relinquish control and trust completely.

It has happened in ordinary moments.

Letting my husband plan something without needing to know every detail.

Letting him decide where we're going to dinner.

Allowing him to initiate.

Allowing him to solve a problem without immediately offering my solution.

Letting the way he cares for me look like him, rather than requiring it to look exactly the way I imagined care should look.

And something interesting began happening.

As I created more room for him to step forward, he did. More.

Not because I became less capable. Not because I handed over responsibility for myself. And certainly not because I stopped having opinions, preferences, ideas, or authority within our relationship.

I simply stopped believing that my safety depended upon controlling every detail.

That gave him more room to lead in the ways that are natural to him.

And it gave me more room to receive.

His love. His support. His ideas. His planning. His gifts. His leadership.

Even something as ordinary as having someone else decide what we're having for dinner can feel

surprisingly significant when you've spent much of your life believing you always needed to be the one thinking ahead.

The dinner isn't really the point. Not having to carry the decision is.

Softening Isn't the Same as Surrendering Yourself

I think this distinction matters.

For me, part of this journey has included allowing myself to soften more deeply into my feminine while creating room for my husband to express more of his masculine.

But that is how this shift has expressed itself within our relationship.

It isn't a rule for anyone else's.

What matters to me underneath those words is something much broader:

Can I receive without believing that receiving makes me weak?

Can I let someone help me without feeling indebted?

Can I allow another person to lead without believing that means I have lost my own

authority?

Can I say, “What do you think?” without fearing that someone else's answer diminishes

mine?

Can I trust someone enough to lean without collapsing into them?

Can I remain fully myself while allowing someone else to bring something meaningful into

my life?

Those questions have become much more interesting to me than whether I am technically capable of doing something myself.

Of course I am capable — I simply no longer need to prove I am capable.

But How Do You Know When It's Safe to Let Go?

This is where things become more nuanced.

Because letting go of control isn't automatically wise.

Trust isn't pretending every person is trustworthy.

Receiving isn't ignoring your instincts.

Softening doesn't mean overriding something inside you that is saying, “No. This isn't safe.”

And another person doesn't become trustworthy simply because we want to stop being

hyper-independent.

So how do we know?

I don't think we always know in advance.

Sometimes we discover it through small experiences.

We loosen our grip a little. We notice what happens. We listen to ourselves. We pay attention to how the other person responds. We notice whether their actions consistently match their words. We let ourselves receive something small and discover how it feels.

And then we choose again.

That, too, is self-trust.

Self-trust isn't knowing with absolute certainty that another person will never disappoint

you. It is knowing that you will remain with yourself if they do.

Perhaps that's what eventually makes loosening the grip possible.

I don't have to control every outcome to trust myself.

I don't have to know exactly what will happen.

I don't even have to guarantee that I will never get hurt.

I need to know that I will listen to myself, respond to what I discover, and make another choice when something no longer feels right.

Self-trust isn't something we wait to possess before we begin living differently.

Sometimes we build it by living differently.

One small choice at a time.

Then I Noticed It Happening Somewhere Else

What I didn't expect was that loosening my grip within my relationship would begin showing up in other parts of my life.

Particularly in my work.

For a long time, I could bring the same controlling energy into the things I was creating.

I should be doing more.

I should know what's next.

I should be producing.

I should be promoting.

I should have a plan.

This should already be working.

This should look a certain way.

Even creative work can become another place where we try to manufacture safety through control.

Lately, I've been noticing those “shoulds” differently.

I'm still creating. I'm still writing. I'm still building. I'm still making decisions and taking action.

But I'm becoming more willing to leave some space around it.

To create something and let it breathe.

To write because there is something I genuinely want to explore rather than because I believe I need to keep producing.

To allow an idea to develop instead of immediately turning it into a plan.

To do the work that feels mine to do without believing I have to control what happens after I do it.

And perhaps that's why this feels connected to what I've been learning within my marriage.

I'm discovering that loosening my grip doesn't make me less powerful. It changes how I

use my power.

Maybe Freedom Includes Not Having to Hold Everything

For a long time, freedom meant knowing no one could take away my ability to take care of myself.

There is still something deeply important about that.

But my definition of freedom is becoming larger, more expansive.

Freedom is knowing I can make the decision — And sometimes letting someone else make it.

Freedom is knowing I can carry something. And allowing someone who loves me to carry it for a while.

Freedom is knowing I have a voice. And being able to listen without fearing that another person's voice will erase mine.

Freedom is knowing I can stand on my own. And still allowing myself to lean.

Maybe that's one of the places where hyper-independence and sovereignty finally separate.

Hyper-independence says:

I don't need you.

Dependence can say:

I can't do this without you.

But somewhere between those two is something that feels much more whole:

I know I can do this. And I trust myself enough to know that I don't always have to.

There is strength in being capable.

There is also strength in receiving.

And perhaps the deepest form of self-trust is having access to both.