Holding The Reins Today

An avid horseback rider from a young age, I learned in my childhood that I had a natural tendency to hold the reins too rigidly. I remember my heart pounding and tears running down my face after having my reins taken away during a horseback riding lesson as a teenager. My horse was trustworthy, and we navigated the pattern without incident. Still, without the familiar safety of the steering apparatus, I was overcome by a sense of danger that sent my nervous system into a frenzy.

I used to think that holding the proverbial reins tightly guaranteed control, and therefore safety, regardless of the circumstance. Generalized anxiety hijacked multiple chapters of my life and conditioned me from a young age to see control as the ultimate illusion of safety.

As I navigated life's unknowns, my need for authority escalated into an ongoing internal power struggle that persisted into my adult years.

The more out of control a situation felt, the more rigidly I clung to my safety net: careful planning, a dedicated work ethic, and hypervigilant goal-setting.

I believed that preparation equaled protection.

I would set a goal, work hard at all costs to achieve it, and then set my sights on the next, bigger, more impressive goal post. For me, these accomplishments represented success, independence, and proof of my capacity. The latter was an integral component of my identity, self-worth, and my sense of safety. The underlying anxiety drove this tuned cycle for many years, and it served me well.

Like many women, it was during postpartum that I first faced the first fracture of my trust within my own beliefs, realizing that no amount of effort could guarantee cooperation from a baby.

While there were some difficult moments, the support of other mothers helped me reconcile this truth as an inevitable part of motherhood, rather than seeing those struggles as a failure of my system.

Over time, I gained confidence in my ability as a mother, secured my dream position, and returned to work, claiming my new title as a working mom. Within months, the floor fell out from under the life I had worked to build.

Out of nowhere, my nervous system collapsed, and for the first time, I found myself shattered among the ruins of the foundation that had carried me for decades.

Unlike my previous experiences with anxiety, no amount of internal negotiation or mindfulness could stop the breakdown. Before it even had a name, I no longer recognized myself amongst the implosion of my world.

Professional burnout was my first authentic experience of losing complete control of my mind, my body, and my life, despite deploying all the tools I had spent a lifetime collecting.

It was the moment that my proven rules stopped working, and the reins were ripped from my hands, forcing me to relinquish control, rebuild, and redefine my worth.

Two years later, I had reclaimed my mental health, emerging from crisis steadier and wiser. I had dusted myself off, gathered the reins, and for the first time, guided my life without the white-knuckled grip I had always relied on. My direction was softer, more intentional. The path felt purposeful, marked by presence and a new, hard-earned sense of safety.

Then, at forty-one, cancer blindsided me.

The jolt threw me from the seat that I had just reclaimed. Cancer threatened my health in the most brutal of ways, and the impact sent me tumbling down an embankment, unsure when the assault on my body would end.

Except this time, despite the momentum of the fall, I chose to let go of the reins before impact, trusting that surrender could be a form of strength.

There are a few experiences that demand as violent a relinquishment of control as cancer. My body is still tumbling through this terrain, but my mind surrendered early to a truth I had already learned: holding the reins does not mean controlling the landscape. As my life spins chaotically around me, my thoughts remain clear, fixed on walking through the eye of the storm and out the other side; not unscathed, but alive.

I am grateful for this hard-won resilience. I cling to the hope that this time, my mind will not abandon my body while it fights for its life. I cannot stop the war my body must endure to see this through, but I have learned how to lean into the surrounding support, placing one foot in front of the other, and staying steady.

A life-threatening diagnosis dictating nearly every aspect of my life has forced me to accept agency as my only control. I can’t change my reality, but I can choose how I live within it.

I gather my reins that are now worn and scarred by another runaway. I search for the familiar imprints where my hands still belong. Sometimes my grip is soft, felt only by those closest to me. Other times, the familiar white of my knuckles returns as I scramble for agency inside an experience I cannot change.

I learned during burnout that survival doesn’t always require force. Sometimes it asks for rest, for the grace to listen to your body, and for the courage to name grief while still appreciating the blessings that surround me.

I allow myself the rage, the fear, the sorrow, and the gratitude that exist alongside them. I am allowed the full spectrum of being human.

This space is for unfiltered stories, rooted in the life of a woman and a mother, navigating the messiest seasons.

If you find yourself here, I hope these words offer a place to land.

Life can be devastating.

Life can be beautiful.

You are not alone.

Krystal