Perhaps one of the emotional challenges of Jewish life in difficult times is not only learning how to survive what is happening around us but learning how to live with what we cannot control within it.

By Bev Moss-Reilly

When Control Slips Away

It would be unfair and far too simplistic to say that all Jews are the same. No people are. And yet, within Jewish life, there is often a recognisable thread: a deep need to be prepared, to think ahead, to solve, to organise, to lead, to hold things together, and to find a way forward even in difficult times. This is not about arrogance or dominance. It is often about responsibility. It is about survival. It is about history. It is about generations of people who learned that if they did not stay alert, adaptable, resourceful, and mentally engaged, the consequences could be devastating.

Jews have had to stand up repeatedly throughout history. They have had to rebuild, reimagine, and remain resilient in the face of displacement, persecution, exclusion, and uncertainty. Out of that has come an extraordinary tradition of leadership, innovation, scholarship, creativity, commerce, medicine, science, technology, law, and the arts. Not because life was easy, but often because difficulty demanded courage, discipline, and determination. There is a long-standing instinct in Jewish life not merely to endure, but to contribute, to guide, to repair, and to give meaning.

That is why losing control can feel so profoundly unsettling.

When a person is used to being capable, informed, proactive, and emotionally braced, uncertainty can feel like the rug has been pulled out from under them. It can leave them anxious, vulnerable, exposed, and even ashamed of how fragile they suddenly feel. The very people who are often looked to for strength may find themselves inwardly rattled when they cannot fix, plan, protect, or anticipate what comes next.

There is a close relationship between anxiety and control. They are, in a sense, “Mishpocha” (Family). When life feels unsafe or unpredictable, the urge to control becomes stronger. One tries to organise more, think more, prepare more, check more, manage more. Sometimes this is helpful. It can create structure, purpose, and a sense of agency. But when circumstances become bigger than what any one person can manage, control starts to slip, and that is where mental health can take a knock. Sleep suffers. Thoughts race. The body stays tense. Patience thins. Small decisions feel overwhelming. A person may become irritable, tearful, withdrawn, hypervigilant, or emotionally exhausted.

This is especially true in Jewish communities living with threat, antisemitism, war, instability, or communal fear. When uncertainty grows, it does not only disturb practical life. It disturbs the inner life. A parent may feel distressed because they cannot guarantee a child’s safety. A teacher may feel shaken because she cannot promise normality. A spouse may feel deeply unsettled because no amount of planning can remove the danger facing a loved one. A community leader may look calm on the outside while inwardly carrying enormous strain because so much feels beyond their control.

For many Jews, this loss of control is not experienced in a vacuum. It can stir something older. Historical memory, inherited vigilance, and intergenerational trauma can all intensify the feeling that uncertainty is dangerous. When life becomes unpredictable, it may touch not only present anxiety, but also a much deeper communal memory of what happens when security becomes fragile. That does not mean every Jewish person experiences uncertainty in the same way. But it does help to explain why loss of control can feel especially loaded.

There is also a painful paradox here. The stronger and more competent a person usually is, the harder it can be to admit when they are struggling. People who are used to leading, coping, and carrying others often feel deeply uncomfortable being the one who is frightened, needy, or emotionally unhinged. They may judge themselves harshly. They may keep functioning while quietly falling apart inside. They may tell themselves they should be stronger, calmer, more grateful, more composed. Mental strain does not disappear because a person is intelligent, accomplished, resilient, or capable. Sometimes those very qualities make it harder to recognise when support is needed.

This is where compassion becomes essential. Not pity. Not pathologising. Compassion. The kind that says it makes sense that you are struggling when so much feels uncertain. It makes sense that loss of control unsettles you. It makes sense that a people shaped by responsibility, resilience, and leadership would find helplessness especially painful.

The answer is not to shame the need for control. The answer is to understand what sits underneath it. Very often, underneath the need for control is a longing for safety. A longing for dignity. A longing to protect those that one loves. A longing not to be caught unprepared by pain. Seen in that light, the need for control is not something to mock. It is something to approach gently.

Mental health support can help people learn the difference between healthy agency and impossible responsibility. It can help them recognise what is theirs to hold and what is too heavy to carry alone. It can help them calm a nervous system that has become overburdened by vigilance. It can help families and communities talk more honestly about fear, uncertainty, and emotional overload without seeing these as signs of weakness.

Jewish life has always honoured strength, but true strength is not only found in taking charge. Sometimes it is found in acknowledging vulnerability. Sometimes it is found in saying this is hard for me. Sometimes it is found in allowing support, in loosening the grip just enough to breathe, and in accepting that even the most resilient people cannot control everything.

Perhaps that is one of the quiet emotional challenges of Jewish life in difficult times. Not only learning how to survive what is happening around us but learning how to live with what we cannot control within it. That loss of control has consequences, yes. It can leave people anxious, frayed, and emotionally depleted. But with insight, support, and compassionate understanding, it does not have to define them.

It can instead become an invitation to soften, to share the burden, and to remember that being strong has never meant being untouched.

About the writer:

Bev Moss-Reilly is a Jewish freelance content writer living in South Africa with a deep and heartfelt focus on mental health, emotional wellbeing, trauma, grief, and the unseen struggles people carry every day. Through her writing and her Mental Health Packs, she aims to bring comfort, awareness, compassion, and practical support to individuals, families, workplaces, and communities. Her work is rooted in empathy, dignity, and the belief that nobody should feel alone in their pain, especially in times of crisis.

While the mission of Lay of the Land (LotL) is to provide a wide and diverse perspective of affairs in Israel, the Middle East and the Jewish world, the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by its various writers are not necessarily ones of the owners and management of LOTL but of the writers themselves.  LotL endeavours to the best of its ability to credit the use of all known photographs to the photographer and/or owner of such photographs (0&EO).