I See You - Peace Begins Closer Than We Imagine

Under Control

A few summers ago, I worked for an elderly woman who often used a phrase that lingered with me.

She would hear about someone struggling — a marriage in trouble, a child acting out, a situation unraveling — and she would say she was surprised it wasn’t “under control.”

Sometimes she would say it to her husband.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have that under control.”

The phrase repeated itself like a reflex.

She was in the early stages of dementia, and I don’t know how much of it was truly her voice and how much was habit rising to the surface. But the words stayed with me.

Under control.

Even as control was quietly slipping from her own body, the phrase remained.

And I remember wondering — is control really ever ours?

The Illusion of Control

The more I sit with it, the more I see how deeply that phrase runs through our culture.

We want our children under control.
Our emotions under control.
Our schedules under control.
Our futures under control.

In motherhood especially, the desire can feel urgent.

We want behavior managed.
Outcomes secured.
Meltdowns prevented.

But control and relationship are not the same thing.

There is containment.
There is stewardship.
There is guidance.

But control? It slips through our fingers.

The more tightly we grip, the more life resists.

Recognition

There is a phrase in a movie series my family loves that has stayed with me for years.

In the Avatar series, the Na’vi — the native people of the planet Pandora — greet one another in a particular way.

They bring their hand gently to their forehead, bow slightly, and as their hand lowers, they say:

“I see you.”

It is often spoken as a greeting — before conversation, before disagreement, before anything unfolds.

The way they say it matters.

It is not casual.
It is not rushed.

It feels like an agreement made before interaction begins:

I recognize your humanity.
I acknowledge your being.
I see your spirit before I respond to your behavior.

They begin with recognition.

And that beginning changes everything.

The Cost of Extraction

In the movie, humans arrive on Pandora and come to see it as a resource.

Instead of beginning with recognition, they begin with extraction.

Something to take from.
Something to dominate.
Something to bend to a timeline.

That feels painfully familiar.

We live in a world that often favors:

speed over wisdom
consumption over reverence
dominance over relationship

And sometimes that mindset quietly enters our homes.

We try to extract obedience.
Extract productivity.
Extract performance.

Instead of slowing down enough to see.

It’s Hard to Hate Up Close

There’s a line I once heard: “It’s hard to hate up close.”

Distance allows caricature.
Proximity invites complexity.

You’ve probably heard the phrase, “Never meet your heroes.”

We build people up in our minds — confident, certain, untouchable.
Then we see them in an interview. We hear them hesitate. We notice their insecurity.

And something shifts.

They are no longer an idea.
They are human.

The pedestal softens.

The same thing happens in the opposite direction.

Maybe there was someone from your past who always felt sharp in your memory — someone unkind, dismissive, difficult.

Then one day you see something they share. A struggle. A loss. A moment of vulnerability.

You recognize something in it.

You don’t suddenly rewrite history.
You don’t excuse what hurt you.

But the story becomes more complicated.

They are no longer just a character in your private narrative.

They are a person.

And complexity has a way of softening sharp edges.

The Radical Act of Seeing

In a world that categorizes, polarizes, and dehumanizes…

The radical act is seeing.

Seeing your child in a meltdown — not as defiance, but as overwhelm.

Seeing your own shadow — not as failure, but as information.

Seeing even someone you disagree with as human.

Choosing Coexistence

The older I get, the less interested I am in control.

The more interested I am in reverence.

Reverence for my children’s nervous systems.
Reverence for my own limits.
Reverence for the earth beneath my feet.
Reverence for the complicated humanity in front of me.

There is no real control.

There is relationship.
There is stewardship.
There is coexistence.

Peace often begins much closer than we imagine.

In the space between two nervous systems.
In the pause before reaction.
In the decision to see instead of manage.

Maybe it begins simply here:

“I see you.”

And choosing not to extract.

Choosing to relate.

Choosing connection over control.