The Mind That Fixes, The Heart That Prays

IMG:Aria T. at Longwood Gardens (2022)

This is a reflection on childhood, control, and the mercy of remembering Who holds it all.

I learned about control early. It came disguised as necessary lessons—often through the act of cleaning. Over time, control became something I carried in my body.

The way my parent imposed control eventually became the reason I unraveled. But now I see: falling apart is the very reason I’m still here. I know not everyone shares that sentiment.

Deep cleaning was a Sunday ritual in my childhood—but every day carried remnants of it: the quiet pressure, the constant fear of missing something. Sundays mapped out the rest of my life. No rest. Only vigilance. Only cleaning. Only fixing. As a child, the whole day belonged to fear—learning to scrub every surface, spot every flaw, and understand exactly what would happen if I missed one.

I carried those rituals into adulthood: the cleaning, the obsession, the desperate grasp for control. It gave me a sense of order in a world that felt unsteady.

But survival patterns mutate. They become eating disorders—secret wars waged against yourself. All symptoms of the same ache: the longing to control what was never mine to control. The old patterns return before I even realize I’m slipping. You survived this before. Do it again. As if self-destruction were somehow a doorway to freedom.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about detachment—about the illusion of control. The only real control I have is my breath. But the mind? It slips away without asking. One moment I’m wiping the counter, and the next it’s 3 a.m. and I’m deep-cleaning the cracks in the walls, suddenly aware of every flaw. And it doesn’t stop there. It bleeds into how I see the world: How can I fix this person? How do I stop this war? How do I heal what’s too broken to touch? What’s broken within me?

The coping shifts shape—into not eating, obsessive cleaning, self-harm, isolation. And it is exhausting. Sometimes, even God feels far—not because He moved, but because my eyes are blurred from staring too long at what is broken. He is perfect. He doesn’t need fixing. So the mind forgets to reach for Him.

But at night, when all my efforts fail, my heart remembers. And I pray:

O Lord, carry me away from a mind that only knows how to grasp and fix. Let me rest in Your love. Teach me to live with the cracks and the bleeding wounds. Teach me to see that even the brokenness belongs to You. And I thank You—for the gift of knowing how much I need You, and for the mercy of remembering You at all.