WHY CAN’T I CONTROL MY OWN LIFE?!
She throws the question
like a fist across the floor—
half fire,
half surrender.
She’s been choreographing survival
since before she knew the steps.
It takes precision,
doesn’t it?
Grit.
Willpower.
To make life dance to your rhythm—
to lead without falter,
to spin without slipping,
to snap,
and watch the world respond.
Why should she hand that over
to some invisible partner?
Some unseen God
who claims to be the one holding the rhythm?
Hmm.
A Voice enters—
not to interrupt,
but to join the beat.
A fair question,
it hums,
like a distant song coming closer.
You were given free will.
The ability to move,
to step,
to choose.
But tell Me—
why do you want control?
She pauses—
poised mid-pirouette,
jaw tight,
breath short.
Control feels like grace,
doesn’t it?
The freedom to lead.
To set the tempo.
To decide what matters,
and what falls away.
Still…
it feels like a trick step.
Like the floor might fall out.
And yet—
Power, she thinks.
Power to choreograph her own life.
To never miss a beat.
To rise above weakness.
To glide untouched,
to twirl with precision,
to bow to no one.
A goddess in her own right—
center stage,
commanding the light.
Hmm.
The Voice echoes,
I see.
You were made with the mind to imagine,
and the heart to reach.
But I gave you free will—
not the spotlight without the weight.
She clenches her fists—
as if still holding onto some invisible bar.
It’s not enough.
I want more.
Why?
The music stills.
The lights dim.
If you were meant to control the whole stage,
the Voice says,
wouldn’t you already know all the steps?
Then why the tension?
She falters—
not from shame,
but recognition.
Something stirs in her bones—
like a move she never meant to learn.
I didn’t make you to lead every number,
the Voice whispers.
I made you to move.
To choose.
To trust the floor beneath your feet.
I didn’t give you godhood—
I gave you rhythm,
grace,
invitation.
You were made to receive—
to be caught mid-fall,
to be lifted in the quiet,
to be held
in dances you didn’t have to choreograph.
But somewhere along the way,
someone taught you
that to be led
was to be weak.
That surrender meant stillness.
That control was the only way
to stay on your feet.
No one told you—
Power is heavy.
Control is a drag
on ankles that were meant to leap.
It’s a crown made of mirrors—
and it shatters under pressure.
So you reach,
and stretch,
and fight to hold the rhythm
all by yourself—
but your body knows
it was never meant
to carry the whole dance.
Have you ever wondered…
why you’re always out of breath?
Why even the most flawless turns
leave you empty?
Why even the strongest dancers
long for rest
after the curtain falls?
She looks away—
not in shame,
but with that aching posture
only dancers know.
And that’s okay,
the Voice says.
I’m not asking you to drop the music.
Just—
pause.
And feel.
Let Me show you—
Imagine a little girl,
barefoot,
spinning in the kitchen,
trying to keep pace with grown-up rhythms.
Ten years old,
balancing too many roles.
Eleven,
trying to earn applause
in rooms that only offered silence.
Would you ask her to keep dancing
when her knees were trembling?
No—
you’d reach for her hand.
You’d say,
“That isn’t yours to carry. That’s not your number.”
Now imagine Me.
A Father who never missed a performance.
Who saw every silent rehearsal,
every stumble,
every curtain call.
I don’t want you collapsing
under choreography you were never meant to memorize.
I don’t need you to lead the whole stage.
I just want to dance with you.
Let Me lift you.
Let Me move through the chaos
while you breathe in time again.
You weren’t made to rule—
you were made to move.
To receive
a dance you didn’t design
but one that was always yours.
She says nothing.
Not yet.
Because even the strongest dancers
need to listen to the music
before they step again.
And that—
that’s not the end.
It’s a place
to start
to wonder.
J.N. Rose 