Discomfort and Recovery

On acceptance of things that aren't so pleasant

Last fall, my then partner and I went out to the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, north of Olympia, Washington. We woke up early and drove down, hoping to see some birds and have a nice walk along the beautiful boardwalk that floats over the wetlands. When we got out to the boardwalk, it was pouring rain and gusting winds. We both had “rain jackets” on, which proved themselves insufficient for the volume of water the skies were emptying onto us. And by the time we returned to the car, we were both soaked through – our coats, our sweaters, our t-shirts, our pants, our socks and what felt like our skin.

But we maintained our good spirits thanks to the birds and the green grass and the shining moss that hung off the trees in the distance. And when we got home, we bundled up, napped, cranked up the heater, drank lots of tea and felt refreshed by the morning walk and fresh air.

It’s only been a couple of years since I have been able to go on a walk like that and stay in good spirits. I have never been a fan of being cold or wet, and would mostly avoid any nature excursion that I knew would include these things. But my perspective has shifted, partly due to an accumulation of lovely experiences in nature (despite some wetness or soreness), and partly due to this broader exploration of myself and what it really means to experience life.

Types of Discomfort

In exploring wholeness, there may be a tendency to think of a striving toward calm, safety, and belonging. Feeling whole might be associated with feeling happy — as if wholeness is a code word for pleasure. But I am (slowly) realizing that discomfort is an essential element of wholeness. Obviously there are a lot of types of discomfort, and I am more able to accept some than others. But acceptance feels like the key here, despite what type of discomfort I’m dealing with.

As one small example, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used the term “comfort with discomfort” in my work as an organizational change consultant to describe how leaders need to show up for their people, understand and model the difficulty of change, and internalize that learning requires discomfort. This type of discomfort is psychological — a flexibility to recognize that when we learn, we change, and when we change, we are “sore” until we re-pattern our thinking or our behaviors. I believe many leaders have unhealed trauma, so some of them are understandably terrified of changing their trusted patterns and behaviors. But this awkward maneuvering within organizations somehow comes somewhat smoothly to me. The scaffolding of a corporate environment somehow makes me feel shielded and like I am okay with being uncomfortable because it’s all a part of a made-up set of societal constructs. That is my framing of this, but as I know from my work, many people find it terrifying.

Of course, interpersonal relationships outside of work also require discomfort. Listening intently to a partner who is unhappy is extremely uncomfortable, and changing your habits to try to heal broken trust or mend a rift is very difficult. We all start with varying levels of ability to embrace this kind of relational discomfort, but I find it to be pretty widely accepted as immensely challenging.

Then there is physical discomfort. As an anxious person, I tend to get triggered based on physical symptoms, rather than having physical symptoms that result in an active brain, for example. The slightest tinge in my stomach distracts me from the task at hand. And exercise has always been a struggle because any nausea or pain that would come from it would ruin a few days of my life.

I know many people who “push through” this physical discomfort, or were raised playing sports and are just used to pushing their bodies to a tipping point. For me, physical discomfort has been the root of my mental health challenges in a lot of ways. But as with anything, it has been enlightening and helpful to recognize this.

Acceptance

No matter the type of discomfort I am dealing with, I have been exploring what it looks like to just accept it. In some cases, that looks like acknowledging that the pain is a part of a journey toward a better future — relationship growth, career growth, or physical health. In other cases, such as with anxiety, I have recognized that accepting and letting go is really the only way to manage those symptoms when they crop up. It’s counter-intuitive intellectually, as many tools are, but it has been incredibly helpful.

Somatics

While it sounds lovely to be able to just accept physical pain or discomfort, or to be able to will away anxiety with acceptance, it’s not quite that easy. It’s important to look deeply at the feeling in order to let it go, which is NOT a natural skill for me. That’s where my somatic practice has been coming in. I actually like this easily Google-able Healthline definition of somatics:

any practice that uses the mind-body connection to help you survey your internal self and listen to signals your body sends about areas of pain, discomfort, or imbalance

My therapist is particularly amazing because she is well-researched in her field and understands the physical elements of traumas of all kinds. Given that anxiety disorder is my primary reason for being in therapy, I’m surprised that I have never had a therapist who had me really look into the physical symptoms. Prior therapists were really only concerned with my thoughts, and while it was helpful to break them down, I often found the over-focus on my thought patterns to be anxiety-inducing rather than soothing.

So my therapist frequently asks me to stop talking, and to locate the feeling I am experiencing in my body. It has taken me a long time to really understand the value of this. At first, I couldn’t do it. I would literally describe emotions, or say things like “I feel nauseated.” But I couldn’t tell you where that nausea was coming from. I was so used to ignoring and pushing down the negative sensations that I had lost my ability to read my body at all. There was even a moment where she asked me to do some relaxation, and asked me to start by relaxing my feet. I opened my eyes abruptly and looked at her with a dismayed look. I told her that I couldn’t feel my feet – I was just picturing feet, not actually feeling them. It was a somewhat terrifying realization.

About a month ago, I started a Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction course through Mindfulness Northwest. This methodology was developed by Jon Kabat-Zinn at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center. This amazing program takes people through a regimented exploration of meditation and mindfulness to help treat chronic pain, terminal illness, and depression and anxiety, among many other afflictions.

The early part of this course entails 30-45 minutes a day doing a “body scan.” This just means bringing your awareness to individual parts of the body (often starting with the left toes) and observing sensations, slowly and non-judgmentally. Not even two weeks into this routine, I was amazed at how much I was able to locate discomfort at any point in the day. It really is a practice that teaches you to listen to your body, and it turned on a number of light bulbs relating to things my therapist had been working on with me. The most surprising thing? Attuning to the sensations more often than not is the first step to accepting them, and sometimes they just go away on their own. This fear that I had of paying attention to pain (thinking that it would make it worse) was actually keeping me from healing.

Hygge

This whole exploration reminds me of the contrasts of Hygge. The Norwegian and Danish concept of Hygge (hue-guh) has become trendy in America and the UK. Of course it has; it is incredibly appealing. It is described as “a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.” (Oxford) How lovely. Brands, Instagrammers and crafters have embraced this, representing it with cozy fires, scarves, warm socks and steamy cups of tea. This (terribly long and sensationalistic) article from The Guardian describes it as “catnip for social media.” In other places I’ve seen it described as the acknowledgement of a feeling of coziness.

What has always struck me about this term is that it rarely comes with any description of the contrasting or opposing sensations, which in my opinion are necessary for experiencing it. In Scandinavia, there are many days when it is freezing cold and the daylight is scarce. And of course, work still happens during these times, whether that means a chilly and precarious commute or bundling up to do farm chores and chop firewood.

Especially as I explore the idea of being a small-scale farmer, I find that these contrasts make each end of the spectrum more powerful. For me, cozying up at home is more enjoyable when it proceeds hard work, or even discomfort. And discomfort would not be bearable if we could not take time and space to discover the relief that can come afterwards. I am learning to embrace this mentality with each day, and with each sensation.

Yet another lifelong effort ;)

Obviously this is a long-term process, but I’m thrilled by the potential. I have a lot more thoughts about how the body is the quintessential example of wholeness, but how so many of us, myself included, aren’t really convinced of it. More to come, but I am excited that my perspective on discomfort is shifting. It can essentially be encapsulated in a few points:

• Discomfort is necessary,

• Acceptance is the key to healing,

• Recovery from discomfort facilitates learning, and

• Resilience is built by pushing yourself into discomfort, not by staying comfortable.

I will continue to ponder my own perceptions of discomfort, and the level of discomfort I am willing to endure in order to create a better future. For now, I find that my connection to nature and my innate sense of wholeness is absolutely strengthened by letting myself get covered in rain water from time to time. A nap and some tea will warm me right up.