What if choosing to submit is actually an act of power?

I’ve just finished the first draft of my next book, and she’s a big one — around 210,000 words of slightly darker, rather complicated romantasy. And somewhere in the middle of writing it, I became really interested in the dynamic between my two main characters, because they kept bringing me back to three ideas: agency, autonomy and control, and the differences between those three concepts.

Because they’re both strong people. Capable, stubborn, used to surviving, and neither of them especially comfortable with having decisions made for them. But they both find themselves in circumstances where some of the biggest choices in their lives have been taken out of their hands, and once that happens, the smaller choices start to matter more.

She notices when he asks instead of assumes. He becomes much more aware of the way other people speak to her, the titles they use, the respect they show, the assumptions they make about who gets to decide what happens to her. Things that might seem small start carrying more weight, because when the big choices are limited, every little bit of choice feels more visible.

But what really got me thinking was the part of their relationship that seems to sit almost in contradiction to all of that. There are moments, particularly sexually, when she submits to him despite not being a submissive person. She’s not yielding because she’s weaker, or passive, or because he’s somehow overpowered her will. She’s doing it because she chooses to. And that’s important to him too. He’s naturally more dominant, but he doesn’t want simple obedience. What matters is that she could push back. She could refuse. She could tell him no. And she still chooses, in that moment, to let him lead. She still chooses him.

That’s where the difference between agency, autonomy and control starts to get interesting. Agency is about being able to make meaningful choices and act on them. It’s that sense of I’m doing this because I’ve decided to. So actually, submission can involve a lot of agency. She’s choosing who she trusts, what she’s willing to give, where her boundaries sit, and whether she wants to hand over the lead at all.

Autonomy sits underneath that. It’s the deeper idea that she’s still the author of her own participation. She can agree to limits. She can choose to follow. She can let someone else make decisions for a while. But ultimately, it’s still hers to give. The choice only means something if she still owns the right to change it.

And then there’s control, which is much more immediate. Who decides what happens next? Who sets the pace? Who leads? Who gives direction? That means control can be handed over without autonomy disappearing. And I think that’s the bit that really stayed with me, because she can retain her autonomy, use her agency to choose submission, and through that choice give him a degree of control. That’s very different from having no meaningful alternative.

I can’t say no is not the same thing as I could say no, and I’m choosing not to. And maybe that’s why these dynamics can be so compelling in fiction. We tend to put submission and strength on opposite sides of the scale, as if one must cancel out the other, but I’m not sure that’s true at all. Sometimes letting go of control can come from a position of strength. Sometimes the power is in knowing you could hold on — and deciding that, with this person, you don’t want to. That “I submit to you” can mean something very different from “I’m unable to resist you.”

Maybe the strongest version of chosen submission isn’t I have no will. It’s: I have a will. And this is what I’m choosing to do with it.

Photo by Hamza Madrid on Unsplash

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