Live & Let Live: The Art of Loving Without Control

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life trying to love people well. But I have a confession: I’ve also spent a good chunk of it trying to edit them. Especially the ones I love most.

I’ve wanted my adult kids to make choices that kept me comfortable. I’ve mistaken agreement for closeness. I’ve clung to the illusion that “if you’d just see it my way, we’d be fine.”

We call it connection. But sometimes it’s really fear dressed up as wisdom. And while not everyone does this, most of us—at some point—have struggled to let the people we love be fully themselves.

That’s why I’m so profoundly grateful for one voice in my life that modelled a different way.

My mom used to say, “Live and let live.” It was her quiet little mantra. Nothing flashy. But she meant it. She lived it. And when I was sixteen, she showed me exactly what that meant.

It was late one evening, my parents were already in bed, trying to sleep, and I was doing what angsty teenagers do—standing at their doorway unloading a pile of existential questions like they were on-call philosophers. I was unraveling the beliefs I’d been handed, one uncomfortable thread at a time.

Then I blurted it out: “Honestly, I just don’t believe there’s a God.”

Now, you’ve got to understand—my parents were deeply religious. Faith wasn’t just personal; it was cultural, generational, and woven into everything. My words could’ve landed like a betrayal.

But my mom didn’t flinch.
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t panic.
She didn’t reach for a Bible or try to change my mind.

She just looked at me and said, calmly, in her unshockable way: “Well, honey… that’s something you’re going to have to figure out on your own.”

That was it.

She didn’t need me to land where she landed. She didn’t shame me for doubting what she cherished. She didn’t love me if. She loved me no matter.

And in that moment, something cracked open in me. Not because she had answers. But because she gave me freedom. The freedom to wrestle. To wonder. To grow.

She let me go—not in abandonment, but in belief. She trusted my process more than she feared my questions.

That night, I learned something I’ve been trying to live by ever since: Real love doesn’t require agreement. It makes space for becoming.

Live and let live wasn’t just something my mom said. It was something she believed. And it gave me room to become me.

Now, this story isn’t just personal—it’s universal. Because every single one of us lives under the weight of expectations. From our families. Our communities. Our cultures.

Some are explicit: “Become a lawyer.”
Some are subtle: “Don’t be too emotional.”
Some are well-intended: “We just want what’s best for you.”

But behind every expectation lies a worldview—a frame of reference quietly scripting what we assume is just how life is supposed to work.

Psychologists describe this as the internal lens through which we interpret everything.

Your frame of reference is shaped by your upbringing, your beliefs, your education, your trauma, your economics, your culture, your religion—or your departure from it.

It’s the silent GPS behind your every decision.

And it’s usually invisible. Until it collides with someone else’s.

That’s what makes family expectations so complex. They’re not usually about control. They’re about frames. And when frames don’t match, we feel the friction.

A parent might say, “You need a real job,” but what they mean is, “I’m scared for your future.”

A sibling might say, “You’ve changed,” but what they mean is, “I miss who we used to be.”

We hear critique, but often what’s underneath is concern.

We hear judgment, but what’s underneath is longing.

We hear silence, but what’s underneath is fear.

And here’s where the science gets interesting.

Studies show that on average we make approximately 35,000 decisions a day—and 90% of them are unconscious. That means your frame of reference is calling most of the shots, even when you think you're in charge.

Your frame of reference is like your brain’s operating system—quiet, constant, and custom-built. It’s shaped by everything you’ve ever learned, loved, feared, or lost. And like any OS, it runs in the background, automating how you see the world—filtering meaning, assigning value, flagging threats.

So when someone questions your choices, it’s rarely just about you. It’s also about the software they’re running—the stories they’ve lived, the rules they’ve followed, the fears they’ve inherited. Their frame of reference is doing exactly what it was programmed to do: trying to make sense of your life using the files from theirs.

So what do we do?
We do what my mom did.
We learn to love without strings.

We let go of the need to be understood before we stay connected. We stop assuming agreement is the price of belonging. We trust that difference isn’t disloyalty.

Love—real love—isn’t proven when everything aligns. It’s proven when nothing does, and the connection still holds.

If you’re navigating this tension right now—between honoring who you are and staying connected to where you come from—here are three steps that help:

Thinking back, the greatest gift my mom gave me was freedom. The freedom to question. To wrestle. To figure it out for myself—and still belong.

Because here’s the truth: Real love doesn’t lock people in. It opens the door and says, “Go grow.”

Grow into all you were meant to be.
Not what I hoped you’d be.
Not what I feared you might become.
Just you—free, evolving, fully alive.

That’s what it means to live and let live. And maybe that’s what the world needs most right now— not more fixing, not more forcing, not more fear… just a little more space.

To let people wonder.
To let people grow.
To let people become.
To let it be.

Until next week,

Jonathan Penner | Co-Founder & Executive Director of LifeApp

Want to share your story? Have you ever felt pressured by family or community expectations? What helped you navigate it? Leave a comment online—I’d love to hear from you. Click Here

LifeApp 3 Day Retreat
Relationship Coaching
What Is LifeApp?