Discomfort for the sake of discomfort

Some flora and fauna carve out their ecological niche in a deliberately inhospitable place. (Image by Mario Hagen)

My brother, otherwise normal, runs ultramarathons.

The thing about ultramarathons is that they are so darn long that you better really enjoy running if you run one. It’s the quintessential experience of learning to enjoy the journey—or at least, to stay focused on the process instead of the outcome.

Even though ultra runners push themselves to finish, they'll never make it if they’re focused on the end of the race. They have to be focused on each step, each breath. Take enough steps and enough breaths, and you'll get to the finish line.

Of course, there's a paradox built into this. While you're running, you focus on the running, but if you didn't care about finishing, you wouldn't have entered the race. There's an interplay between the outcome and the process that is more complex than simply enjoying the journey. Part of running an ultramarathon, in fact, is accepting that you won't enjoy the whole journey. Some of it is going to be miserable, and yet you'll embrace that fact. You do it because of the challenge of doing it, and you hang in until the end because of the challenge of hanging in until the end.

I have never run an ultramarathon, but I routinely do hard things for the sake of doing hard things. I'm writing this blog post because I want to have written this blog post. The experience of writing a given post ranges from discomfort to elation, but that's irrelevant to the question of whether or not I'm going to do it. I do it because I've committed to doing it, and that commitment creates its own meaning.

Without the commitment (and a community supporting that commitment), I wouldn't be writing right now. Without a commitment (and a community supporting that commitment), my brother would not run fifty miles at a time. We humans decide to do these things and support each other in doing them because we want to transcend the everyday reality we would otherwise have. We want to achieve something bigger than what we would do alone, left to our own devices. We say yes to things that stretch us for irrational reasons that nonetheless can pay off significantly.

My friend Andre, a trainer, pointed out that many people seek comfort to a degree that weakens them. They are afraid of cold and uncertainty and fatigue. Those of us who lean into the moments of discomfort—of growth—become stronger and more resilient. Lifting heavy weights prepares you to lift even heavier weights. Soon enough, you relish the opportunity to lift them instead of fearing or dreading it.

I believe that many of us are longing for a chance to show what we can do. Having mastered the routines of our adult lives and careers, we are craving something deeper—something that will test us and call us to reach a new level. We know we don't have to. That's the whole point.

I imagine that's why people do stupid things like climb Mount Everest. We want to pick something impressive. We're better off making art, launching a venture, starting a family, or achieving some other feat that won't put anyone's life in danger. What's impressive is personal, specific to who we are.

So even though it would be nice to just relax and take it easy right now, I write instead. I write because I've committed to, and I committed to do it because relaxing and taking it easy isn't enough. I want discomfort for the sake of discomfort, until I overcome the discomfort. I'm not there yet, and that will keep me going.