The Seduction of Control: Proving I Matter—and the Freedom of Letting Go

The Ache We All Carry

We all want to matter. Deep down, there's this quiet, persistent ache: Does my life count? Am I seen? Am I enough?

From childhood we learn that if I can control how I'm perceived—smart, faithful, successful, right—then I must matter. Control becomes the way we prove our worth. We grip outcomes, perceptions, even eternity, because if we can nail them, we feel safe. We feel real.

My Fortress of Proof

I know this ache intimately. For years, it drove everything I did.

I spent so much time trying to prove Mormonism was true. I collected evidence, scriptures, historical data, logical arguments—anything that could shore up the fortress. I did the same with The Family: A Proclamation to the World. I memorized key phrases, studied counter-claims, prepared "gotchas" for doubters. I wanted to demonstrate, beyond question, that this was the path. That I was on the right path.

The effort didn't stop at church. I pursued a PhD partly because it felt like undeniable proof of intelligence and worth. Landing a job at a big tech company became another badge: See? I belong here. At work, I was constantly trying to show superior knowledge—correcting coworkers, winning debates, proving I was the smartest in the room. Every fact, every win, every credential was ammunition in the quiet war to convince myself (and everyone else) that I mattered.

It kept my spirit afloat… barely. The anxiety never fully left. Because no matter how much I accumulated—degrees, job titles, apologetic arguments, data points—the ground felt shaky. One doubt, one challenge, one failure, and the whole structure threatened to collapse.

I see now that I wasn't really defending truth. I was defending me. Control was my way of saying, "If I can master this system—whether religious doctrine or professional excellence—then my worth is secure."

Switching Teams, Same Game

And I'm not alone.

Many people raised in high-demand faiths like Mormonism hit a wall: the old answers stop working, the rituals feel like checkboxes, the certainty slips away. So they search elsewhere. They jump to science, evidence, rationality. They collect studies, dismantle claims, post threads showing how nonsensical certain doctrines are. The dopamine hit is the same: "Now I have the superior epistemology. Now I'm right. Now I matter."

Scripture describes this pattern: "Ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth" (2 Timothy 3:7, KJV). This is us, when we chase new proofs, new deconstructions, new reconstructions, always hungry for the system that will finally lock in our value. We switch teams, but stay in the same game. Mormonism promised certainty through obedience and ordinances. Post-Mormon skepticism promises certainty through debunking and empiricism. Both are grips on the uncontrollable: ultimate truth, ultimate safety, ultimate proof that I am somebody.

Most of us never fully collide with the deeper truth. We sense the ache, we search harder, we switch sides again if needed—but we rarely stop long enough to see the game itself is the problem.

The Collision I Almost Missed

For me, the collision came slowly, through books on real, deep change (the most important being The Anatomy of Peace, Bonds that Make Us Free, Crucial Conversations, Mindset). I kept trying to find that instant fix which would completely transform me so I wouldn't ever make mistakes again, but it always felt just out of reach. I tried to use self-control to force better outcomes, yet I stayed stuck.

Then it hit me: I wasn't seeking truth. I was seeking a shield for my worth. My PhD, my tech job, my gotcha arguments, my need to be right at work—they were all part of the same mask. Any attempt at self-control came way too late, long after the real decisions had been made which shaped my behaviors.

When I Finally Let Go

When I let go, everything shifted.

I stopped measuring my worth by credentials or correctness. I stopped monitoring my coworkers' "worth" as a way to reinforce mine. I stopped needing to prove anyone wrong. And something beautiful happened: I could finally see people. Really see them.

I saw engineers worried I thought they were dumb. I saw colleagues hesitant to explore ideas because they feared looking foolish. By no longer needing to win, I freed them. They became more creative, more explorative, better coders—because the invisible pressure was gone. And I was freed too. The constant weight of anxiety lifted. I could breathe.

Best of all, shifting my worth from behaviors to simply seeing myself and others as people meant the right actions flowed naturally. I no longer needed to exert self-control to "fix" myself—I realized I didn't need fixing; I needed to be seen. And in seeing others the same way, they began to flourish and so did I.

The Freedom on the Other Side

I still get tugged in sometimes. Inflammatory posts online, debates about religion or politics—they pull at the old reflex to grip, to prove. But now I can step back. I see the person on the other side trying to bolster their own worth, desperate to be seen as right, smart, enlightened. I recognize the same hunger I once had. And when I do, the fight drains out of me. I can let go of the invisible rope in this never-ending tug-of-war.

The truth is simpler—and more terrifying and beautiful—than any system: You already matter. Full stop. Not because of your evidence, your degree, your job, your baptism, your deconstruction, your gotchas. You matter because you exist. Because grace says so. Because the Spirit of Christ informs you when someone treats you as if you don't.

That truth doesn't need proving. It can't be disproven. It's the end of mastery, the end of the scorecard.

When we stop tying our worth to outcomes, we're free. We can get baptized or study science or argue online—not to earn salvation or superiority, but because it matters to us in that moment. We can enjoy success and mourn failure without our core happiness collapsing. Rituals become symbols of commitment, not hall passes. Knowledge becomes curiosity, not a weapon.

The only choice that truly matters remains: Will I treat the person in front of me—coworker, spouse, online stranger, skeptic, believer, myself—as someone who matters? Not because they've proven it, but because they already do.

What would change in your life this week if you stopped trying to prove you matter—and simply lived from the quiet knowledge that you already do?

I'm still learning this. Some days the old seduction pulls hard. But the weight is lighter now. And when I remember I don't have to win to be worthy, I can finally rest. And maybe, just maybe, help someone else rest too.