Letters to My Younger Self on the Illusion of Control

I’m sitting at the piano in my New York apartment, the city humming outside like a tired engine. The window’s open, and I can hear the sirens. They remind me of Liverpool. Of my mother’s laugh before the car hit her. Of how I used to think life was something you could punch into shape, like a boxer leaning into the ropes. You’ll learn, kid.

The Illusion of Control

I know you—me—think you’ve got all this figured out. The jokes, the sneer, the way you hold your cigarettes like a film star’s holding a revolver. You’re trying to prove you’re tougher than the world, but the world doesn’t care. It’ll keep spinning whether you punch the walls or not. When Julia died, you told yourself her absence made you stronger. Bollocks. It just made you scared to let anyone close.

I remember that day outside the Liverpool Institute. You were 14, scribbling in your notebook, pretending not to care when the other boys called you “sad bastard.” Your uncle George told you to “get a grip,” but control’s a fantasy. You’ll spend years chasing it—through music, through women, through pills—only to realize the tighter you hold on, the more it slips through.

The Loneliness of Fame

When you’re 25, they’ll hand you a ticket to America, and you’ll think you’ve made it. But the screaming girls, the hotels, the drugs—they don’t fill the hole. Nothing does. One night in ’64, you’ll find yourself in a Miami pool at 3 a.m., drunk and wondering why you’re not happy. You’ll call Cynthia and apologize for being a bastard, but you’ll keep lying to her. You’ll lie to everyone, including yourself, until the truth weighs so heavy it almost drowns you.

They’ll turn you into a god, but gods don’t cry. Gods don’t bleed. You’ll pretend you’re immune to the messiness of being human, and it’ll cost you—your son, your marriage, your band.

The Trap of the Ego

I wish I’d listened to Yoko sooner. She’ll show up in ’66, all avant-garde and unimpressed by your Beatles veneer. You’ll spend years trying to prove you’re still the toughest kid from Liverpool, even as you follow her into art installations and primal scream sessions. Let’s get one thing straight: your ego’s a rancid bastard. It’ll tell you you’re smarter than McCartney, cooler than Dylan, more enlightened than everyone. You’ll lash out, alienate people, and call it “honesty.”

When you finally go to Arthur Janov’s clinic in ’70, you’ll scream until your throat’s raw. You’ll cry for the kid who lost his mother, the husband who couldn’t love, the man who thought success made him untouchable. The ego’s a prison, boy. Burn it down.

Love as a Radical Act

Here’s the kicker: You’ll find peace, but not where you think. It’ll be in a small kitchen in upstate New York, making porridge for Sean while Yoko laughs at some nonsense on the radio. You’ll raise him with the patience you never learned from your own father. You’ll cook lentils, change diapers, and realize love isn’t a conquest—it’s showing up, day after day, even when you’d rather write a song about revolution.

And activism? Forget the headlines. Real change starts with holding someone’s hand when they’re scared. When you’re shot in ’80, they’ll call it a tragedy. But you’ll die knowing you spent your last decade trying to mean something beyond the music.

The Wisdom of Surrender

So here’s what I’ll tell the kid with the notebook at the Liverpool Institute: You don’t have to be a hero. You don’t have to fix the world or outrun your past. Let people in. Forgive yourself for being flawed. And when the sirens wail, don’t flinch. They’re just life, howling back at you.

The piano keys are cold under my fingers. Outside, the city keeps turning without me. But I’m okay now. You will be too.

Talk to John Lennon on HoloDream to explore his journey from chaos to compassion.