For most of my life, I’ve lived as if it was my job to hold everything together.
Other people’s emotions.
Other people’s pain.
Other people’s outcomes.
I didn’t call it control back then. I called it love. I called it loyalty. I called it being “strong.” But today, in therapy, someone very dear to my heart introduced me to the 3 C’s of Al-Anon, and they quietly unraveled a pattern I’ve been repeating for years.
I didn’t cause it.
I can’t control it.
I can’t cure it.
And suddenly, it wasn’t just about recovering from an eating disorder anymore. It was about me.
I Didn’t Cause It — But I Always Thought I Did
I’ve always been a fixer.
If someone was hurting, my first instinct was to look inward and ask: What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently? I learned early on to take responsibility for things that were never actually mine. In relationships, I blamed myself when things fell apart. In my family, I felt responsible for keeping everyone okay.
Even with my own struggles, between my anxiety, my eating disorder, and my burnout, I treated them like personal failures instead of signs that I was overwhelmed and human.
The truth I’m slowly accepting is this:
Not everything that breaks (or seems to break) around me is because of me.
I didn’t cause other people’s pain. I didn’t cause their coping mechanisms. I didn’t cause situations that were already unfolding long before I entered them. Letting go of that guilt feels unfamiliar, but also incredibly freeing.
I Can’t Control It — Even When I Try Really Hard
This one hits close to home. Control has been my safety blanket. If I could just plan better, love harder, be calmer, be quieter, be stronger—maybe everything would stay intact. Maybe people wouldn’t leave. Maybe things wouldn’t fall apart. But control is exhausting.
I’ve tried to control relationships that were already slipping. I’ve tried to control my future so tightly that I forgot to live in the present. I’ve tried to control my body, my emotions, my healing—until it all turned against me. What I’m learning now is that control doesn’t equal security.
Sometimes the tighter I grip, the more I lose myself. Sometimes the bravest thing I can do is loosen my hold and let life move as it’s going to—without me fighting it every step of the way.
I can show up, and I can care,
But I don’t get to manage outcomes.
I Can’t Cure It — and That’s Not a Failure
This is the one that breaks my heart the most—and heals it at the same time. I’ve loved people deeply. I’ve believed that if I was patient enough, understanding enough, selfless enough, things would change. That my love could be the thing that saved them.
But love is not a cure. I can’t cure someone else’s struggles. I can’t heal someone who isn’t ready. I can’t sacrifice myself into making someone whole. And realizing that doesn’t make me cold or selfish —it makes me honest.
It means I get to stop abandoning myself in the name of “helping.” It means I get to choose healing even when someone else isn’t. It means I get to build a life that isn’t centered around fixing or proving my worth.
What the 3 C’s Are Teaching Me Now
Right now, I’m in a season of stepping back.
I stepped away from school.
I’m redefining what “success” looks like.
I’m learning who I am without constantly performing, rescuing, or holding everything together. The 3 C’s remind me that: I don’t have to carry everything, I don’t have to earn rest, I don’t have to suffer to be worthy of love.
I’m allowed to choose myself. I’m allowed to heal slowly. I’m allowed to let go.
And maybe that’s what this chapter is really about—not fixing, not forcing, not controlling—but finally learning how to live.
I didn’t cause it.
I can’t control it.
I can’t cure it.
But I can choose peace.
Authentically You 