Control—a manifestation of māna

As one begins or progresses in meditation practice, numerous mental hindrances, obstacles, defilements, or blockages can emerge and create challenges in the practice. At the heart of all these hindrances lies a major root: unwise attention. This unwise attention can appear in everyone in slightly different ways; it may manifest differently based on a person’s habits, tendencies, and mental inclinations. But one key outcome of this distorted attention is the urge to control.

In worldly matters, control is seen as essential. We plan, manage, and strive to ensure success in our careers, families, and relationships. Control is the tool we rely on to shape the world to our liking. However, what works in the world often becomes a poison in the meditation. The same impulse that drives success in external life becomes a serious obstacle in inner cultivation.

Let’s first clarify that control itself is not inherently bad. It depends on context, the mental state underlying it, and the direction it leads. Here, we’re talking about a harmful and unwise form of control: one rooted in ego (māna) and delusion (moha). You might call it a kind of “totalitarian ego”, a mental dictator that insists on having its way, both inwardly and outwardly. It manifests as an inflated sense of self-importance, a belief in one’s own ability to dictate reality. It’s rigid, self-centred, and ultimately, deluded.

Where does this urge to control come from? The Abhidhamma gives us a clear answer: māna (conceit). Māna is a defilement rooted in lobha (greed). According to the Abhidhamma Commentaries, māna expresses itself as a desire to be pre-eminent, to be superior, or at least equal, in all situations. This isn’t just arrogance. Māna can also appear as subtle self-comparison: “I’m just as good as them”. Even when it isn’t superiority or inferiority, there’s still a comparison being made, reinforcing the sense of “I” and sustaining the ego.

In this state, the mind overestimates its power: “I can do anything” but in an unhealthy way–one that forgets the core truths of Dhamma: that all phenomena are conditioned, impermanent, non-self, and subject to kamma. Māna tricks the mind into thinking: “Everything I want must happen. Everything I do must succeed. Everything I think should manifest.” It’s a form of self-centred greed masked as confidence. And that’s why the Abhidhamma points out that conceit (māna) is ultimately rooted in greed (lobha).

When māna is active, the self comes first, before truth, before wisdom.

Let’s examine this through a simple worldly example. Imagine you're standing in a queue and someone suddenly cuts in front of you. Almost instantly, you feel anger (dosa). But before that anger arises, something else happens, though so quickly it’s almost invisible: māna (conceit) arises first. This māna appears with a strong sense of “I”: “I was here first, so I deserve this spot.” It’s a subtle, deeply conditioned attachment to something non-existent but perceived as mine. This moment of conceit is incredibly brief, so fleeting that unless one has developed clear vipassanā insight, it usually goes unnoticed. Without mindfulness, it feels as though anger simply erupts out of nowhere. But in truth, the anger is only the second flame; the first spark was māna. The mind becomes agitated because the illusion of control has been disrupted. You thought you had command over your position in the queue, and someone just took that from you. Māna loudly shouts: “This spot matters, because it’s yours.” And once that perceived possession is violated, dosa rushes in. The anger is not just about fairness, it’s the ego reacting to its territory being disturbed, to its imagined control being undone. What seems like a trivial incident becomes inflated in the mind, all because of that hidden conceit clinging to this little spot you are standing on as “mine”.

Take another example: you're meditating and suddenly lose track of your breath due to wandering thoughts. What’s the emotional reaction? Frustration, agitation (dosa). But look closely. That anger arises because māna was already there: “I’m watching my breath. I should be able to do this.” There’s possessiveness: my breath, my concentration. When that possession is taken away, anger arises due to a sense of loss of 'control'.

Or consider this subtler case: you're practising vipassanā, observing the arising and passing of rūpa to see anicca (impermanence), and suddenly your attention tightens, your body tenses, and it feels like you're forcing the process. Why? Because māna is again creeping in with the supporting power of restlessness: “I have to see anicca. I am seeing it.” This is the ego trying to control even insight, as if the truth of impermanence will bend to your will. The result? Disappointment, frustration, and imbalance in effort. Your energy becomes strained, and the practice stalls.

By now, the pattern should be clearer. Control, when rooted in lobha-māna (conceit rooted in greed), leads inevitably to dosa in the form of frustration, anger, sadness, or dissatisfaction. This isn’t limited to meditation either. It affects our relationships, our families, our everyday lives.

Consider a parent frustrated with their child: “You’re my child, you should listen to me!” This is māna, masquerading as love, and in reality, it is possessiveness rather than unconditional acceptance. And when the child resists, the parent’s illusion of control is shattered, often resulting in damaging anger. In truth, when this mindset is prevalent, it is about dominion than loving and kind guidance. That’s the ego again, working through a façade of love.

Here’s the basic pattern:

#1: Māna (“I”) → Control → If unmet, Dosa (anger/dissatisfaction/demotivation/loss of faith)

Let’s apply this to our meditation.

If you plant a seed for an apple tree today, do you get apples tomorrow? Of course not. The seed must be watered, protected, and given time, perhaps years, before it matures into a tree and finally bears fruit. The exact timeline can’t be rushed or predicted. The same principle applies in meditation practice. When cultivating access or absorption concentration, these states don't arise just because we want them to. You can't simply sit down, close your eyes, and force them into existence. They emerge only when the right supporting conditions are in place: steady effort, continuity of mindfulness, a wholesome mental foundation, and so on. Wanting such states to arise out of sheer ego—the conceit of “I must attain this now”—only leads to frustration. The Dhamma operates as Dhamma as it is. Nothing can manipulate or change the Dhamma at will. All that we experience are subject to the law of causality and the ownership of kamma. This means we cannot bypass causes or leap over our past actions. We reap only what we have sown.

Progress in meditation, whether fast or slow, reflects the kamma (or paramī) one has built up over countless lives. So if concentration doesn’t come easily in this life, it simply means the ground must be cultivated further. More effort must be made not from a place of egoic grasping, but with understanding, patience, and clarity. You’re laying down the conditions not only for this life but for future ones. It is important that we all deeply reflect this Dhamma and bring them into their hearts, our practice and how we see things.

In samatha practice, it’s vital to maintain a simple, unburdened state of mind, free from analysis, expectations, or egoic involvement. Your sole task is to know the object as it is. If you're observing the breath, then simply know the breath as the breath. Nothing more.

Don’t turn it into a scientific breakdown of air particles, atoms, or sensations. Most importantly, don’t relate to it as your breath. The moment ownership creeps in, so does control. And with control comes tension, resistance, and fragmentation. The heart of the practice is acceptance: meeting the object just as it is, without dressing it up, distorting it, or pushing it away. It’s not about liking or disliking the breath. It’s about letting it be. In this spirit of gentle, unforced knowing, without interference or manipulation, the mind naturally settles. Concentration and wisdom grows not through force and egoistic control, but through stillness, simplicity, and flowing along with what is.

In vipassanā meditation, it is crucial to realise a fundamental truth: the Dhamma is the Dhamma. It is not ours to command, mould, or possess. The essence of the practice is to see reality clearly just as it is, not as the ego would prefer it to be and control it according to that ego. Our job is not to shape or control experience, but to understand the conditioned nature of phenomena as they arise, in the moment they arise just as the Buddha taught. Simple but hard. The Buddha taught concentration not as a tool to reinforce self-view, but as a means to see through it—to perceive things as they truly are, not through the lens of craving, conceit, dissatisfaction or delusion. The principles of the Dhamma are not toys for the ego to play with or manipulate at will. They are universal laws that must be observed as they are, not possessed. We must understand that insight knowledge cannot be forced, it arises through proper seeing of the Dhamma as the Dhamma.

When one learns to observe the conditioned phenomena without interfering, pushing, pulling, or grasping, the practice naturally becomes steadier and more fluid. By letting go of the urge to control and simply aligning oneself with the flow of reality, the mind begins to settle, and wisdom sharpens. This shift can make a real turning point in the practice.

In the same way that samatha requires us to simply observe the breath as the breath, relationships also require us to see people as they are—not as we want them to be, not as we fear they might be, and certainly not as projections of our own likes, dislikes, or emotional patterns. When we try to shape others to fit our ideals, we're no longer engaging with them. We're engaging with a mental construct born from māna, taṇhā, and diṭṭhi (conceit, craving, and wrong view).

Take a common example: you’re speaking to a family member, and they respond in a way that you don’t like. Maybe they dismiss your point or don’t respond with the warmth you expected. What happens? If you’re mindful, you’ll notice something subtle: a tightening inside, and that is dosa (anger, aversion, depression, etc.) with thoughts of “Why are they like this?”, “They should understand me”, or “They never listen.” This reaction is, at its root, the same tendency that wants to control the breath in samatha or force insight in vipassanā. It's the ego trying to control external reality to match its preferences. And just like in the meditation practice, this need to control causes suffering. Why? Because the moment doesn’t match your internal demand. You’re not allowing the person to be what they are; you are mentally shaping them into what you need them to be in that moment. This is no different from not letting the breath be the breath. It's no longer observation, it's manipulation.

So what’s the alternative? It's to recognise the moment as it is, the person as they are—without clinging, without aversion, and without trying to force change. Just like knowing the breath as the breath, one learns to know the person as the person. Not “my child,” “my partner,” “my friend” in a possessive, controlling way but simply this being, in this moment, speaking from their own conditions, their own kamma, their own state of mind. It’s about meeting them where they are, not where your ego wants them to be. And only from this understanding can genuine mettā, karuṇā, and muditā arise. Why? Because this very understanding is a part of genuine upekkhā—balanced equanimity rooted in wisdom. It is the wisdom that sees: “This being is the way they are because of causes and conditions.” It doesn’t mean passivity or cold detachment. It means relating to others without force, without distortion, and without the conceit that says, “They must be this way because I want it.” When we act from true mettā, we offer support in ways that match the other person’s reality, not ours. We do what we can for their benefit, not to satisfy our sense of control or importance. This is love and compassion free from ownership—a love that liberates rather than entangles.

By releasing control and simply accepting, the way the breath settles when you stop interfering, your relationships begin to soften too. You’re no longer reacting to projections as you’re meeting reality directly. And in that space, real compassion can arise. You see the suffering in the other without adding more suffering from yourself.

Related to this flow from control to dissatisfaction is another equally powerful movement: the flow from control to a heightened sense of self. While unmet expectations lead to frustration and dosa, fulfilled expectations, when driven by māna, tend to inflate the ego. When things go our way, when our plans unfold exactly as we envisioned, or when others behave in ways that align with our desires, there arises a quiet but compelling inner voice: “I made this happen. I am capable. I know best.” This mental movement can be loud or arrogant, but it can also be soft, dignified, even socially praised, but at its root is still māna, the sense of “I” as the controller and owner of outcomes. The more things seem to fall in place, the more the self feels validated, strengthened, and justified in its assumptions. This is how control, when successful, leads not to liberation but to a more entrenched identification with outcomes. The mind clings more tightly to its narratives of “me” and “mine,” and instead of dissatisfaction, it cultivates pride, superiority, and self-importance. Yet, just as the painful version of control collapses under unmet hopes, this pleasurable version, too, is unstable, propped up only by temporary conditions. True wisdom is recognising that both versions are rooted in delusion. By understanding that all success is the fruition of many conditions—past kamma, the application of wisdom, and persistent effort (viriya)—the inflated self can be gently deflated. One then sees that results are not owned but arise dependently, and with that insight, the heart becomes freer and lighter.

#2: Māna (“I”) → Control → If met, stronger Māna (pride)

A student studies diligently and scores the highest in the class. Internally, there arises the thought: “I succeeded because I worked the hardest. Others didn’t succeed because they weren’t as disciplined as me.” There’s māna, the sense of I, at the root of this success.

Now, since the goal was met, the māna doesn't dissolve; it strengthens. Pride sets in. There’s comparison, subtle belittling of others, or the craving to always stay “on top.” The success feeds the ego, which starts to believe in its own supremacy.

But true understanding would reflect:“This success came because three things aligned:

1. Kamma: I’ve planted seeds in this life by studying diligently, and due to past kamma, maybe even lifetimes ago, I achieved this success.

2. Ñāṇa (Wisdom): I applied myself wisely, not just blindly.

3. Vīriya: I made an effort without giving up.

Such reflection dissolves pride. It places the result in the context of conditions, not “me.”

Let's look at another example. After months or years of practice, a meditator enters absorption for the first time. The experience is blissful, calm, deeply satisfying. Immediately, a thought arises: “I’ve done it. I’ve reached a higher state. I must be on the right path, unlike others who are still struggling.” Here, the original effort might have been wholesome, but success, when owned by māna, inflates the sense of I. The practitioner may become attached to the state, look down on others, or become obsessed with repeating the experience. If there’s no wise reflection, jhāna becomes a badge of ego. But wise reflection knows:

• The jhāna arose not because “I deserved it,”

• But because of the alignment of supportive kamma,

• The right application of wisdom, and

• Steady vīriya (balanced energy).

Once seen this way, the pride melts into humility, and the attainment becomes a support for deeper practice—not an identity.

A parent beams with pride as their child wins awards, speaks respectfully, and behaves impeccably. Internally: “This is my child. I raised them well. Other parents should take notes.” Here, māna is clothed in parenting. The child’s success becomes a possession, a reflection of the self. And because the child met expectations, control is justified, and pride intensifies. But wise reflection would say:

• This child’s actions are a product of their own present kamma (present actions cultivated by the child as well as the parent).

• Their development is guided by wisdom, both theirs and what was offered to them.

• And their effort (vīriya) played a major role, not just “my parenting.”

By reflecting this way, māna weakens, and genuine appreciation replaces pride.

In all these cases, if one pauses and reflects:

• “This came about through causes, not ‘me’,”

• “This is conditioned, not owned,”

• “Success is just another event, arising and passing…”

…then māna dissolves into wisdom, and progress continues without the burden of ego.

For those practising vipassanā, in addition to such reflections, the most powerful reflection is the reflection of impermenance, which is the understanding that all things arise due to conditions, and those resultant and causal phenomena are all impermanent. When one truly sees that all phenomena are conditioned and constantly perishing, there is simply nothing to cling to, no solid ground, no lasting substance, no permanent “I” to uphold. With this clear vision of impermanence, the delusion of control begins to fade, and māna—the conceit that says “I am,” “I know,” “I can” loses its footing. The more deeply impermanence is seen, the more natural it becomes to let go, and in that letting go, the self-construct begins to dissolve.

The all-encompassing tool that can subdue and ultimately relinquish the sense of control (and all of the defiling states of the mind) is none other than mindfulness itself: sammā-sati. When right mindfulness is firmly established, wisdom arises as there is no instance where wisdom arises without mindfulness. With wisdom present, wise attention leaves no space for defilements to infiltrate the mind. This is precisely why the Buddha's final words were a caution: to remain ever heedful. The moment heedfulness slips, the intoxicants of the mind creep in and create the illusion of control, or at the very least, the belief that control is possible. In truth, all phenomena continue to unfold according to their own causes and conditions, what might be called the natural flow of Dhamma, regardless of our preferences or expectations.

Ultimately, for those walking the Noble Eightfold Path, it is essential to be keenly aware of māna, both in its obvious forms and its more subtle disguises. Māna sustains the illusion of control and perpetuates cycles of pride when things go our way, and despair when they do not. Through the cultivation of wisdom and unwavering mindfulness, we gradually train the mind to release these unskilful habits. The heart grows calm, gentle, and increasingly aligned with the Dhamma. Such inner harmony is not incidental: it is the very ground upon which deep insight is built. To realise the Dhamma as the Dhamma, as it truly is, requires that we relinquish resistance and let go of egoic interference. To become an Arahant, to realise the Four Noble Truths, is to be completely in tune with the truth, the unshakable reality of how things are. The reason dukkha continues is because defilements seize control of the mind, pushing it to resist the natural law, to fight against the current of Dhamma. But when one fully sees the truths, when wrong perceptions, distorted thinking, and clinging views fall away, the mind comes into accord with what is always present—the Dhamma, unchanging, whether or not a Buddha is here to declare it. And in that deep attunement, true liberation arises, not as something granted, but as the inevitable result of complete harmony with the Truth.

Think not lightly of evil, saying, “It will not come to me.” Drop by drop is the water pot filled. Likewise, the fool, gathering it little by little, fills himself with evil. (Dhammapada 116)