On becoming comfortable with discomfort
I hear myself telling others that I'm becoming comfortable with discomfort. I said it last week to a friend on a call. I wrote it in an email to a writer/podcast host whom I've looked up to for years. And I said it to my students yesterday on the second floor of MacLean Hall. It's where I am professionally and personally, and I’m leaning into the inherent vulnerability even now as I’m writing. People are going to read this. Gone are the days when I felt good at anything, it seems.
This is, of course, melodramatic.. People say I have beautiful handwriting. I can still do that. Writing a letter to someone just to hear them say, "Wow! You've got amazing penmanship!"—does anyone even say "penmanship" anymore?—isn’t the kind of comfort I’m looking for. I want to know whether time will prove me a success or failure in this shift from teaching to copywriting.
Becoming comfortable with discomfort. It's probably time to reach for a more tangible metaphor.
Growing up, I gravitated toward those Jesus Bible stories with water and boats. I made a book about the time that Jesus is sleeping in a boat while a storm terrorizes his students. My drawings were unusually complex for a first grader because I was copying a book. Didn't have a clue about plagiarism or copyright rules. I liked to draw and needed pictures to go with the story. Later, I found much strength from the story of Peter walking with Jesus on the water. The New Testament's own example of mindful practice: don't focus on what wave may strike you but on the fact that right now you're doing something awesome with an amazing person.
These are great stories for me even now. Guides for navigating midlife crises.
I have a friend who says things like, "I'm going to make [fill in the difficulty] my bitch." She makes me laugh—which is a major part of her goal—but the phrase doesn't work for me like it does for her. We're both in that same stage of life, though: mid-forties, career change, staring down our fears courageously. What we'd used to hesitate doing because of uncertainty we march into fearlessly. Or courageously. Or foolishly. What's difference? We don't have much of a choice.
I'm finding there are a lot of people in this boat. Life has blown us off course, and we're finding our headings. We're finding our grit. We're finding new tools. The discoveries don't make us feel less afraid; they make the experience somehow manageable.
I'm with her, too, hoping for days with seasonable winds, spiced rum in hammock, and Captain Jack Sparrow at the helm.
I spoke with another friend today, and she feels exhausted from the experiences. She wants some days of smooth sailing. I'm with her, too, hoping for days with seasonable winds, spiced rum in hammock, and Captain Jack Sparrow at the helm.
Transitions have always been tough. You may have heard that "Change is the only constant." Heraclitus taught long ago that "You never step into the same river twice." Everything is flux. Yet, I can look back on notable transitions and see how I struggled to make them. I struggled to turn the transitory space into familiarity and predictability and—ultimately—home. Each time the transitions seem heavier. A school transition was difficult for me, but I managed. A move from Sarasota to the Carolinas was difficult, but I managed. A move from teacher to entrepreneur within the same summer is difficult right now, but I'm managing.
I'm stopping myself to think about those two transitions from long ago. So many memories come. I probably wouldn't have wanted either to happen. I know I didn't want to change schools. I liked my school and saw potential there. The Carolina move felt like more of an adventure, and I was fortunate to know friends in my new "home." In both transitions, though, I found a way forward. I found previously unknown resources within me that powered me through.
I'm better off because of the struggle.
That admission is a star that orients me. I'm better off. Which means that right now on this cold November morning I'm in the process of finding resources to sail me throughout the second half of life. I can lean into that realization today and not because I don't have any other choice. It's a good choice all things considered.
I'm less a "I'm gonna make discomfort my bitch" and more of an Epictetus' "Bring it on, God," believing—and here's my faith—that the power that upholds this universe is upholding me, sustaining me with resources that the heat of the present struggle is pulling to the top. I'm being refined, to use a non-sailing metaphor. The dross is being separated from the gold. The process is far from comfortable, but I'm becoming comfortable with the discomfort within the language of adventure.
