I am in control of the mental atmosphere I create.

Every room has a temperature before anyone in it speaks. So does a head.

You set yours in ways you'd never dignify as decisions: what you read first thing, which of yesterday's conversations gets replayed while you do the dishes, whether a slow queue is narrated as an outrage or as six free minutes.

Control here doesn't mean the weather is always fair. Grief arrives. Bad news arrives. What you're in charge of is the climate around them, whether a hard hour is met with company or with running commentary about how much better you should be handling it.