The Hardest Part in the Serenity Prayer
I brought the question to him one day because it had been troubling me for a long time. “There’s something about the Serenity Prayer I don’t fully understand,” I said. He looked up, interested. “What is it?”
“I think most people focus on the first two parts,” I replied. “The serenity to accept what cannot be changed and the courage to change what can be changed. But the part that seems most difficult to me is the last one: the wisdom to know the difference. How do we actually know? How do we decide whether something is within our control?”
He smiled. “That is probably the hardest part.” For a moment, he remained silent, then continued. “The difficulty is that we are not always objective when evaluating situations.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our emotional state shapes how we perceive our ability to influence things,” he said. “When we feel strong, confident, and empowered, we often overestimate our control. We think we can fix everything, change people, solve every problem, and overcome every obstacle. And when we feel weak, we do the opposite. We underestimate our ability and convince ourselves that nothing can be changed, even things that are actually within our reach.”
I laughed. “Sometimes we think we control everything, and other times we think we control nothing.”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s start with something simple. There are certain things that are directly within your control.”
“Such as?”
“Your thoughts. Your responses. Your decisions. Your actions. Your words. Your effort.”
“That sounds obvious.”
“It sounds obvious,” he replied, “but most people spend surprisingly little time focusing on these things.” He paused. “Now let’s talk about something else. Other people.”
I smiled. “That’s where life gets complicated.”
He laughed. “Yes. That’s where confusion usually begins. People often assume they have more control over others than they actually do.” He paused, then offered an example. “Children. Parents often believe they control their children. But do they really?”
“At least while the children are young,” I said.
“Not exactly,” he replied. “What they control are actions. A child eats because the parent insists. Sleeps because the parent decides. Follows rules because consequences exist. But that is only control of behavior, not of thoughts.” He let that sentence sit for a moment. “Think about it. Even when your child was five years old, you could not control what he believed, what he felt, or what he thought. You could influence those things, but you could never directly control them.”
I sat with that quietly, because it was true. He went on. “As children grow older, this reality becomes more obvious. Suddenly they disagree. They make their own choices. They form their own opinions. And parents become frustrated, because it feels to them as though something has changed, as though the child who once listened without question has somehow slipped out of their hands.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But nothing has actually changed. The disagreement, the independence, the private opinions, all of it was there long before it became visible. A small child does not lack a will of his own. He only lacks the strength, the words, and the confidence to make that will known. What grows with age is not the child’s independence. It is only the ability to express what was always there. So, when a parent senses that something has shifted, they are usually right that something looks different. But the underlying truth has not changed at all. It has simply come into view, the way a shape becomes visible once the fog around it clears.” He let that settle for a moment before finishing his thought. “That is when parents discover something that was always true. They were influencing all along, not controlling.”
I thought about several relationships in my life. “Then much of our frustration comes from confusing influence with control.”
He nodded. “A great deal of it.” Then he said something that changed how I thought about responsibility. “Your real circle of control is quite small.”
“That sounds discouraging.”
“It only sounds discouraging because you believe control creates power.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. You control yourself. Your thoughts, responses, and decisions. Everything else is influence.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s already a lot,” he said. “It will feel like a lot once you start using it.”
He drew an imaginary circle with his hand. “Most people spend their lives in the outer circle—the circle of concerns—what people think, what other people should do, what the economy should do, and what family members should do.”
I laughed. “That sounds familiar.”
“It sounds familiar because that’s where most of us live.” He drew a smaller circle inside the larger one. “But when you focus on what you actually control—your actions, your habits, your responses—something interesting happens. Your influence grows.”
That seemed backward to me. “If my circle of control is smaller, why would my influence be larger?”
He smiled. “People are influenced by character. Think about the people who have influenced you most. Were they constantly trying to control you?”
“No,” I said, and I thought immediately of several names.
“What made them influential, then?”
I thought for a moment. “Their integrity. Their consistency. Their example.”
“Exactly. The more responsibility you take for your conduct, the more credible you become, and credibility creates influence. The irony is that people who spend all their time trying to control others usually lose influence, while those who focus on controlling themselves often gain it.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then I asked another question. “How do I know whether something belongs in my circle of control or my circle of influence?”
He smiled. “Ask yourself a simple question. Can I directly decide this? If the answer is yes, it belongs in your circle of control. If the answer is no, it belongs at best in your circle of influence.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It is simple.”
“Then why is it so difficult?”
He smiled again. “Because, emotionally, we don’t like the answer.” We both laughed. “Think about it,” he continued. “You want someone to appreciate you. Can you make them appreciate you directly?”
“No. I can only influence them.”
“You want your child to make wise choices. Can you make those choices for them?”
“No. I can only guide.”
“Exactly.” He grew thoughtful. “Much of our anxiety stems from trying to carry responsibilities that do not belong to us. We want certainty. We want guarantees. We want complete control over outcomes. We want people to respond exactly as we hope. But life doesn’t work that way.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
He nodded. “We are responsible for effort, not outcomes.” That line reminded me of so many spiritual teachings I had encountered over the years. “God never gave us control over everything,” he continued. “He gave us responsibility.” The distinction felt profound, and I sat with it for a while.
As our conversation ended, I found myself thinking again about the Serenity Prayer. For years, I had assumed that serenity and courage were the difficult parts. Now I understood why wisdom sits between them, because without it, we try to change what cannot be changed or surrender what should be changed. Perhaps wisdom begins when we stop asking how to control this situation and start asking instead what is mine to do here. That question quietly returns us to reality.
My thoughts are mine. My actions are mine. My responses are mine. My effort is mine. Other people are not. Outcomes are not. The future is not. Strangely, the clearer we see those boundaries, the lighter life becomes. Not because problems disappear, but because we stop carrying burdens that were never ours to begin with.
