Episode 188 - Allowing vs. Forcing Part 1: Why We Do It and What It Costs

Stop Repeating Yourself: Why Nagging, Advising, and Controlling Isn't Working

Have you ever caught yourself saying the same thing to someone you love for the 17th time? Maybe it's advice your adult child isn't taking. Maybe it's a change you desperately want your spouse to make. Maybe it's concern about a choice your friend keeps making.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, there's this voice telling you that this isn't working. Saying it over and over again isn't actually helping. But you just don't know what else to do.

I've been there too. But I've also been learning that there's a critical moment in our important relationships where we face a choice: Do I force this to go my way, or do I allow what's actually happening?

If you're anything like me, forcing feels responsible. It feels like what a good mother, wife, daughter, or friend would do. It feels like love. But what if forcing is actually getting in the way of the very thing we want? What if there's a different way. A way that's harder and braver and requires more faith, but actually creates space for real change and real connection?

The way we engage with the people we love most when we're scared, when we disagree, when we desperately want them to choose differently—that determines whether our relationships grow or shrink, whether we create connection or distance, whether we experience peace or stay stuck in anxiety.

A Story About Allowing: When Forcing Doesn't Work

Let me share a story that illustrates the difference between forcing and allowing in relationships.

A few days ago, I was standing midway on a beginner ski run with my 6-year-old granddaughter. She'd only been skiing twice before, two years ago, and now here she was—frozen on the ski hill, looking down, her little body rigid with fear.

Everything in me wanted to push. I wanted to say things like, "You can do this. It's not that steep. Come on, just try." I could feel it in my body, that urgent need for her to not be scared. I wanted to get her past the fear, to make her brave, to get on with the fun day we'd planned.

But something made me pause.

I remembered: she's not acting this way to be difficult. She's acting this way because her nervous system is dysregulated. She doesn't feel safe, and no amount of pressure from me was going to make her less afraid. In fact, my forcing would probably make it worse.

The Difference Between Safety and Felt Safety

So instead of pushing, I leaned in. I held onto her little arms, looked into her eyes, and asked her, "Are you safe?"

She looked around. She could see me, her aunt behind her, her grandpa just a little ways down the hill, the gentle slope, other kids going down just fine. Then she said, "Yes."

Then I asked her this: "Do you feel safe?"

She started to nod. I think she thought that was the right answer but then she caught herself. Her little face got serious and she said quietly, shaking her head, "No. I don't feel safe."

There it was. A 6-year-old naming something so many of us never learn to articulate: the difference between objective safety and felt safety. Between what's actually true and what our nervous system is telling us.

"That's exactly how it is sometimes," I told her. "You are safe, but your body doesn't feel safe right now. So let's help your body feel safe."

We stood there. Not skiing. Just breathing together. Just being. I had to allow her the time to regulate herself so that she could feel in control. I had to meet her where she was without trying to control anything.

After a few moments of deep breathing, something shifted. Her shoulders dropped, her face softened, and then she said, "Okay. I'm ready."

And she was. She skied down the hill with growing confidence. As the morning went on, she started doing everything herself—getting on the magic carpet, weaving in and out of cones. By the time we left, she was begging to stay longer.

What Would Have Happened If I'd Forced Her?

I've thought about this experience a lot since then. What would have happened if I'd forced her? If I'd said, "Don't be silly, you're fine. Just go"?

Maybe she would have eventually gotten down the hill out of compliance and shame. But she wouldn't have regulated herself. She wouldn't have learned to trust her own body's signals. She wouldn't have discovered her own courage. She would have learned that her feelings don't matter, that adults won't meet her where she is, and that being afraid means something is wrong with her.

But instead, because I allowed—because I gave her the space to feel what she felt and time to regulate—she found her own way forward. The outcome I wanted did happen, but not because I forced it. It happened because I trusted the process.

Learn more about allowing vs. forcing—why we do it and what it costs.

The Choice We Face in Every Important Relationship

This is the choice we face in the relationships that matter most to us. Do we force or do we allow?

And it's not just 6-year-olds on ski slopes. It's your adult daughter who left the church and you keep sending articles about faith. It's your husband who won't go to the doctor and you keep nagging him about his health. It's your friend stuck in the same pattern and you keep giving her the same advice over and over, and she's not taking it.

We know they're safe, or at least safer than they seem to feel, but they don't feel safe or ready or capable. When we're in forcing mode, we're essentially standing in the middle of that ski slope saying, "Just do it. Stop being scared. You can handle this."

But what if the most loving thing, the braver thing, is to lean in and ask, "What do you need?" And then allow the time, the space, the process that they need to find their own way?

Why We Force Instead of Allow: 4 Core Reasons

Why, when we genuinely love someone, do we slip into forcing mode even when we know intellectually that it doesn't work? It's because forcing is a coping strategy, not a character flaw. Once we understand where it comes from, we can have so much more compassion for ourselves when we catch ourselves doing it.

1. The Illusion of Control

We believe we have more control than we actually do. When we're anxious, our brain desperately wants that illusion. When someone we love is struggling or making choices that scare us, we feel powerless. That powerlessness activates our nervous system, and we go into fight or flight.

Our brain starts scanning: What can I do? How can I fix this? How can I make this better?

Forcing—which looks like nagging, advising, managing, controlling—temporarily relieves that anxious feeling. It makes us feel like we're actually doing something. Like we're being responsible. Like we're not just sitting by while something bad happens.

But the truth is, that relief is an illusion. We're not actually making anything better. Often we're making it worse by damaging trust and connection. But our anxiety doesn't care about that. It just wants that temporary hit of "I did something."

It's like my granddaughter on the ski slope. If I'd pressured her down the hill, I would have felt better for a moment—good, I handled it, we're moving forward. But her nervous system would still be dysregulated and the actual problem wouldn't be solved. It would just be hidden.

2. Family of Origin Training

Most of us were trained to force. Think about some of the messages you may have internalized growing up: Good mothers don't let their kids make mistakes. If you really loved them, you'd make them see reason. Your job is to fix, manage, and control outcomes. If something bad happens and you didn't intervene, it's your fault. Letting go means you don't care. Standing by while someone struggles is abandonment.

These messages feel true and they run deep. For many of us, forcing is what love looked like in our families. So when we're not forcing, when we're allowing, it can actually feel like we're being neglectful or cold or uncaring.

But that is old programming. That is not the truth.

3. We Confuse Anxiety with Intuition or Discernment

We think, "I feel strongly that my daughter shouldn't take this job," or "I just know my husband needs to see this doctor," or "Something is telling me I need to intervene with my friend."

But often what we're feeling isn't divine guidance. It's just anxiety. And anxiety is a terrible decision maker.

Anxiety always wants us to do something, control something. That's how we can know the difference. Real intuition or personal revelation or inspiration is usually quieter. It doesn't come with urgency or desperation. It doesn't need to repeat itself 17 times. It doesn't make us feel tight and panicky.

If you're feeling urgent all the time about needing someone to change, that's probably your nervous system, not the whisperings of the spirit.

4. The Cultural Story About Responsibility

We live in a culture that tells us we are responsible for other people's choices and outcomes. As women and as mothers, we feel this intensely. We're told that if our kids struggle, we failed them. If our marriage is hard, we're not trying hard enough. If our aging parents decline, we should have done more. If our friend makes a bad choice, we should have stopped them.

This is such a burden to carry, and it's not even true. When we've been carrying this story our whole life, allowing can feel dangerous. It feels like we're abdicating responsibility. It feels like we're not loving well.

So what do we do? We force because forcing at least lets us tell ourselves we tried, we did everything we could, we are a good person.

Here's what all of these reasons have in common: They are all about managing our own anxiety, not about what the other person actually needs. When we force, we're usually trying to make ourselves feel better—more in control, more responsible, less guilty, and less scared.

But allowing requires us to carry our own anxiety without trying to fix it by controlling someone else. And that's hard. That's why allowing isn't passive. It's actually the harder, braver choice.

The Grief of Letting Go: What We Lose When We Stop Forcing

What most of us don't understand is that when we begin moving from forcing to allowing, this is going to bring up grief. Because when we stop forcing, you have to let go of things that matter deeply to you—real things, important things, things you've been holding onto with white knuckles.

Before you can truly allow, you have to acknowledge what you're releasing and let yourself feel the loss of it.

We Grieve the Outcome We Wanted

When I stopped trying to force my granddaughter down the ski slope, I had to let go of the vision I had for how that moment would go. I imagined her confidently skiing, my husband and I proudly watching, the perfect grandparent-granddaughter day. But instead, I got standing still in the middle of a mountain, breathing with a scared 6-year-old, not knowing if she'd ski at all.

In our adult relationships, the stakes can feel so much higher. When you stop forcing your adult daughter to come back to church, you have to grieve the vision you had of worshiping together, of a shared faith, of the spiritual legacy you thought you'd pass on. When you stop nagging your husband about his health, you have to grieve the fantasy that your anxiety could keep him safe, that your effort could control the outcome.

These losses are real, and allowing doesn't mean pretending they don't hurt.

We Grieve the Control We Thought We Had

Forcing lets us believe we have power. When we stop forcing, we have to face our own helplessness, and that's terrifying. We have to admit: I can't make my child choose what I think is best. I can't protect my husband from every health risk. I can't prevent my friend from making this mistake. I cannot guarantee the outcome I desperately want.

This is a death of sorts—the death of the illusion that our love, our effort, our wisdom, our anxiety could control another person's path.

We Grieve the Role We Thought We Would Play

Many of us have built our identity around being the fixer, the helper, the one who has the answers, the one who keeps everyone safe. When you allow instead of force, you have to step back from that role, and it can feel disorienting. "Who am I if I'm not fixing this? What's my purpose if I'm not solving their problems?"

As mothers, we feel this grief deeply. We were taught that our job is to shape outcomes, to ensure our children turn out right. So allowing can feel like abandoning our post.

But the truth is, you are not abandoning anything. You're just stepping into a different role. Presence instead of control. Witness instead of manager. Companion instead of rescuer.

We Grieve the Relationship We Imagined

Sometimes allowing means accepting that the relationship you have isn't the relationship you wanted.

Your adult child who stepped away from the faith—you have to grieve the spiritual conversations you thought you'd have, the shared values you imagined, maybe even the temple marriage or the grandchildren being baptized.

Your spouse who won't engage in the way you wish—you have to grieve that emotional intimacy you hoped for, the partnership you envisioned.

Your aging parent who's declining—you have to grieve who they used to be, the time you thought you'd still have.

Allowing means accepting reality as it is, not as we wish it were. And acceptance requires grief.

Allowing Moves Through Grief, Not Around It

From a religious perspective, we may refer to this as surrendering, taking up our cross, accepting the Lord's will. But sometimes I think we skip over the grief part.

If we think about the Savior in the garden of Gethsemane, he didn't just peacefully surrender. He sweat drops of blood. He said, "Let this cup pass from me." He felt the full weight of what he was releasing.

And Mary, his mother at the foot of the cross, didn't just gracefully allow her son's death because she trusted God's plan. Her heart was pierced. The grief was real.

Allowing—truly allowing—isn't a bypass around grief. It moves through grief. It says, "I feel the loss of what I wanted. I acknowledge what I'm releasing. I'm going to let myself be sad about it. And I'm choosing to trust what I cannot control."

So before we talk about how to allow, I want to give you permission to grieve. Grieve the outcome you wanted for your child. Grieve the role you thought you'd play. Grieve the control you're releasing. Grieve the relationship you imagined.

This isn't weakness. This isn't lack of faith. This is being human.

When we allow ourselves to grieve, when we don't skip over the loss, we actually become more capable of healthy allowing. Because we're not white-knuckling it. We're not pretending it doesn't hurt. We're acknowledging the cost and choosing it anyway.

That is not passive. That's powerful.

Your Practice This Week: Awareness

Now you have a better understanding of why we force. It's not a character flaw, it's a coping strategy rooted in anxiety, family patterns, cultural messages, and the illusion of control.

And you understand what it costs you. We have to grieve the outcomes we wanted, the control we thought we had, the roles we built our identity around, and sometimes even the relationship we imagined.

This grief is real. So I want to invite you to take this week to just sit with that. Don't try to fix anything yet. Just notice:

• Notice when you slip into forcing mode

• Notice what it feels like in your body

• Notice what you're actually trying to control

• Notice what you're afraid will happen if you don't force

The first step is awareness.

What's Coming in Part 2

Next week we're going to talk about how to actually move from forcing to allowing. I'm going to give you answers to your "but what about" questions, nervous system tools you can use in real time when that forcing urge comes, actual words to say, and a framework that makes allowing possible.

But for this week, just become aware. Awareness is the first step.

Until then, may you have compassion for yourself when you notice the forcing pattern. You're not broken. You're just trying to love the best way you know how, and we are going to learn a better way together.

Ready to transform your relationships? This is Part 1 of a 2-part series on allowing versus forcing. Subscribe to the Seasons of Joy podcast to get Part 2, where we dive into practical tools, specific language, and a framework for moving from control to connection in your most important relationships.

Ready for More Support?

If you want more guidance on transforming conflict into connection, I invite you to check out my Conflict to Connection 30-Day Challenge. This email series will walk you through practical tools and mindset shifts to help you navigate difficult relationships with more peace and confidence.

You were created for this season, and your influence for good is needed now.

Until next time, may you find joy in the journey.

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About the Host: Jill Pack is a certified faith-based life + relationship conflict coach and member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She helps women of faith navigate their seasons of life with greater purpose and joy including how to transform conflict into connection. For more resources or to work with Jill, visit www.seasons-coaching.com.

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