A Pocket of Presence

by Molly Booker

Lately, control has been on my mind.

I want to manage everything—dishes, trash, recycling, laundry, the house. I want it orderly, contained, done my way. When it isn’t, I get irritated. I judge. I feel that burning question: Why can’t they just do it how I do it?

At first, I blamed Kelly and Leo. Why weren’t they ruled by the same urgency I was? Why didn’t they care as much about order? Why didn’t they feel the pressure?

But after some hard, honest conversations with Kelly, I began to hear something uncomfortable. Maybe it’s not the dishes that are the problem. Maybe it’s the control.

And maybe—just maybe—that need for control is actually covering something much older, much deeper.

Because underneath all of this, I’m afraid.

When I slow down and feel my body in those moments, it’s tight. Braced. Like I’m strapped into a roller coaster that’s about to drop. My mind starts scanning for what’s out of place, what could go wrong, what I’ll miss. There’s an itch, an energy, a desperate restlessness—like trying to find a comfortable position on a red-eye in coach. I want to rest, but it hurts more to try than to just keep moving.

Doing becomes survival.

I get caught in that trap of believing that if I just handle it all—if I keep everything clean, paid, folded, packed, tracked—then I’ll be safe. Then I’ll be okay.

But it’s a treadmill. And the destination is always just out of reach.

This need to manage everything isn’t really about the house. It’s about the fear of falling back into the black hole of suicidal depression—a place I lived in for years. A place where I felt helpless, worthless, broken. Where nothing helped. No sleep, no support, no exit. Just me, aching and alone and tired of trying.

So I became vigilant. Hyper-aware. Over-functioning. I told myself that if I never stopped, if I kept everything in line, I could outrun that darkness.

But the hypervigilance became its own kind of prison.

And love—real love—doesn’t survive well inside prisons.

Kelly doesn’t negotiate with that prison. She doesn’t want to live by my rules, or raise Leo inside a system of tension and invisible debt. And when I push for order, she pushes back. Our protectors clash. I draw a line in the sand. “If I bend, I’ll break. If I give, I’ll disappear.” That’s what the old story says.

But love is stronger than the fear. That’s why I haven’t left.

This morning, I woke with that old pit in my stomach. Guilt. Pressure. The sense that I hadn’t done enough. That I had to earn my place again. I fed the dogs, did the dishes, took out the trash. I checked boxes like penance, chasing peace I couldn’t quite reach. And in all that doing, I skipped the things that actually feed my soul—prayer, writing, silence, stillness.

But then, something shifted.

I walked upstairs to my office, which feels more like a playroom than a workspace. I sat down, even as my mind screamed about all I hadn’t done. I closed my eyes. I placed a hand over my heart and whispered:

I forgive myself for judging myself as not enough.
I forgive myself for judging myself as lazy, scared, out of control.
I forgive myself for thinking I have to earn my worth.

And I felt something loosen.
I felt lightness return.
Like blood flowing back into my cold fingers.

That’s what surrender looked like today. Not perfection. Not enlightenment. Just a pocket of presence.

Later, I spoke to that protector part of me—the one who believes safety comes from control—and I told her this:

Oh sweet girl, I know it all feels so out of control.
I see your fear. I get it. You are not alone.
You are so loved. You belong.
You don’t have to earn it. It’s yours.
Your presence is enough.

Right now, even as I write this, my list is screaming. The trash bins, the missed calls, the laundry, the things I haven’t handled. I feel behind. I feel like I should do more, prove more, be more.

But I’m choosing something else.

Just for today, I’m booking an hour with myself. An hour to be. To walk, to watch the birds, to listen to a book, to breathe. Not as a reward. But as a beginning.

A pocket of presence. That’s all I need right now.

And maybe that’s all you need, too.