I’ve spent much of my life believing that control would keep me safe, and my need for order has manifested in countless subtle ways. I used to run through every possible outcome when choosing a course of action, feeling responsible for preventing disappointment for myself and others. I still sometimes catch myself mentally rehearsing conversations in hopes they will turn out how I want. Being caught off guard, an unavoidable and neutral part of life, used to feel unbearable to me.

Albeit unhealthy, these habits have always stemmed from a good place; I am both deeply caring and protective. I care about the people around me and I want to ensure that they are safe from harm and conflict—as though enough vigilance could shield the people I love from the ordinary difficulties of being human—so I worry for their sake, as well as mine. It is almost a motherly desire for order, and ironically enough, it’s a characteristic that I’ve picked up from my own mother, who likes to handle things herself because that is the only way she can be certain that they are done right.

In our minds, if we worry enough, prepare enough, anticipate enough, and make all the “right” decisions, we can avoid pain, and help those around us do the same. But attempting to secure constant certainty in an uncertain world is not only exhausting, but perpetually anxiety-inducing. Buddhist wisdom has helped me make peace with the ever-changing nature of life, and as a result I’ve slowly begun to loosen my grip. Buddhism didn’t teach me how to control life more effectively; it taught me to recognize the suffering that came from demanding certainty from an inherently uncertain world.

The Buddha once taught that when we experience something painful, it is as though we have been struck by an arrow. This first arrow represents the unavoidable hardships of being human: grief, disappointment, rejection, illness, conflict, uncertainty, inconvenience—all of the moments, big and small, when life unfolds differently than we had hoped. No amount of preparation, worrying, or careful planning can protect us from ever being pierced by these experiences.

But then comes the second arrow, a pain which we inflict on ourselves. Rather than tending to the pain of the first, we often wound ourselves again through our resistance to it. We convince ourselves that the pain we are experiencing should not be happening, and then attempt to assert control by searching for an answer, solution, and most notably, a way to avoid this pain in the future. So we replay our pain, blame ourselves, and scramble to regain a sense of control. The first arrow may be inevitable, but the second is one we fire ourselves. Buddhism does not promise a life free from first arrows. Instead, it invites us to notice when we’ve reached for the bow a second time. While we cannot always choose what happens to us, we can begin to recognize the additional suffering we create when we insist that reality conform to our preferences.

When I desperately grasp for a sense of control over a situation, it’s because I somehow believe that if I managed things correctly, I could avoid being struck by that first arrow altogether. But, in truth, no amount of preparation can guarantee that I will never experience loss, hurt, surprise, heartbreak, or pain.

In my experience, the second arrow is rarely just one arrow. When I obsessively ruminate over something, I might shoot five more arrows at myself, and by the end of it I’m not only in more pain than before, I am also exhausted.

For example, let’s imagine that you’ve recently sent a text, but you don’t hear back for several hours. That’s a small “first arrow,” depending on the situation, and you react to it by shooting yourself with an arguably larger arrow by constructing stories about what the silence means. Are they angry? Did you say something wrong? Are they upset with you? You reread the message repeatedly and mentally rehearse future conversations, all because your mind is trying to eliminate the discomfort of not knowing.

Or maybe you know for a fact that someone you care about is upset with you. Knowing that you have hurt someone is absolutely painful, but we amplify that pain when we immediately assume it’s our responsibility to fix everything, replay the upsetting interaction endlessly, and fully blame ourselves for emotions that aren’t entirely ours to manage. This does not mean we should avoid taking responsibility for our actions or the pain we may have caused. Rather, it invites us to address the situation with honesty and compassion, while recognizing that we cannot control how another person feels, heals, or responds, without mistaking a responsibility for control.

A true understanding of karma also helped me work through my need for control. As many Westerners do, I misunderstood karma and believed it to be a cosmic reward system for a very long time. In reality, karma literally means action. In Buddhism, it refers to the intentions we set and the choices we make, which shape our habits, relationships, and experiences over time.

Karma is less about being rewarded or punished by the universe and more about recognizing that while we cannot control every outcome, we can choose to practice wisdom and compassion in how we show up, how we respond, and what kinds of seeds we plant through our actions. This distinction was profoundly freeing to me. It reminded me that I am responsible for my actions, but not sovereign over reality. I can act with honesty, kindness, and care, but I cannot guarantee that life will unfold exactly how I’d like.

Generally speaking, the Buddhist teachings prompt us to redirect attention away from controlling outcomes and toward the quality of our participation within the world instead, understanding what we are and what we are not in control of. So what do we control? For starters, we control our effort, intentions, honesty, kindness, and choices. Inversely, we do not control life’s timing, other people’s decisions, how we are perceived, and even the results of your efforts, which is often the hardest to come to terms with.

Nevertheless, it is a beautiful distinction: we are responsible for our actions, but not sovereign over reality.

I believe that Western people often misconstrue this teaching by equating acceptance with resignation. When we hear the words “accept what you can’t control,” we may feel inclined to interpret it as “don’t care.” To avoid this misconception, I’d like to clarify that Buddhist acceptance means seeing clearly. It says: “This is what’s happening.” I don’t have to like it and I don’t have to approve of it, but I can’t respond wisely if I’m fighting reality itself. When we accept something without denial or panic, only then can we act appropriately, and without introducing a second arrow to our situation. This is because the second arrow often begins when we insist reality should be different before we are willing to engage with it.

So what does separating responsibility from control mean in practice? When overwhelmed, we might pause and ask: “What is mine to do?” and then we act accordingly. Then we should follow up by asking ourselves, “What isn’t mine to carry?” This could help prompt us to release those things that we cannot control. As a result, we begin to free ourselves from the suffering that comes from carrying responsibilities that never actually belonged to us. We may even begin to repeat these questions to ourselves, almost like a meditation.

Even with this understanding, I still reach for control, sometimes excessively when I am under more stress than usual or experiencing a great deal of change. It is natural to want certainty, reassurance, and to protect the people I love. The difference is, I notice when these wants equate to me reaching for my bow, and before I shoot, I recognize the second arrow, and that I don’t have to fire it. Quite honestly, that doesn’t always stop me, but sometimes it does, and that is progress. And overtime, I hope to put down the bow more and more each day.

Ultimately, life will always pierce us with first arrows. We will lose things we wanted to keep, face uncertainty we didn’t choose, and disappoint others and be disappointed ourselves. None of this is failure. It is simply part of being human. The Buddha’s wisdom invites us not to become indifferent, but to stop re-wounding ourselves by trying to negotiate our way out of reality. It is a common misconception that control leads to peace, but we can only experience true peace when we loosen our grip and meet life wholeheartedly. The hardest yet most rewarding part of the practice comes when we are struck by the first arrow, but we resist the urge to pick up the bow and aim a second one at ourselves.

Related features from BDG

Stop Running from Discomfort: What Meditation Actually Teaches
Is It a Quarter-Life Crisis or Just Impermanence? Buddhist Lessons for Young Adults
The Roots of Harm: A Buddhist Reflection on Power and Compassion in Turbulent Times

More from Dharma Bum Buddhism by Kassidy Evans