The Day I Learned to Sit With Discomfort

I used to think growth was about quick fixes—an inspiring quote, a weekend retreat, a perfectly timed revelation that would dissolve my fears. What I didn’t understand was that the real work of becoming whole is rarely dramatic. It happens in quiet, awkward moments when nothing feels resolved and every instinct tells you to run.

This is the story of the day I stopped running.

The Familiar Escape

For as long as I can remember, I treated discomfort like an enemy. I stayed busy to avoid hard conversations. I smoothed over tension to keep the peace. I filled silences with explanations, humor, or endless scrolling. If something hurt, I looked for a distraction.

On the surface, it worked. My life appeared stable, even admirable. Inside, though, there was a constant hum of unease—a quiet awareness that my avoidance was costing me something essential. I didn’t know how to name it at the time, but Brené Brown’s language would later help me recognize it as numbing.

Her research on vulnerability describes how we use work, food, alcohol, or even perfectionism to dull the sharp edges of life. We think we’re avoiding pain, but we end up blunting joy as well. That was me. I was living a muted version of my own life.

A Conversation I Couldn’t Escape

The turning point arrived on an ordinary Tuesday. I had an overdue phone call with a close friend. We’d argued weeks earlier—one of those subtle disagreements that starts small but lingers like a splinter. I kept telling myself I’d reach out when I felt “ready,” but the truth was, I was terrified of the awkwardness.

When the call finally began, my chest tightened. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear her greeting. I wanted to fill the air with apologies, explanations, anything to make the discomfort disappear. But something in me hesitated.

Instead of rushing in, I took a breath. I remembered a phrase I’d highlighted in Daring Greatly: Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome. I couldn’t control how she’d respond. I could only stay present.

So I stayed. I let the silence stretch. My palms sweated. My throat ached. And yet, nothing terrible happened. My friend eventually spoke. Her voice was warm but careful. We stumbled through a conversation that was imperfect and honest. By the end, the air felt clearer—not because we found a perfect resolution, but because we’d both been willing to remain in the discomfort long enough to be real.

What Sitting Still Revealed

That conversation lasted less than an hour, but it changed me. For the first time, I experienced discomfort not as a threat but as a teacher. Beneath the anxiety, I found surprising truths:

• I could survive the tension. My body shook, but I didn’t break. The fear of the feeling had been far worse than the feeling itself.

• Connection lives in imperfection. My friend and I grew closer not because we avoided conflict, but because we faced it together.

• Avoidance steals energy. The weeks I spent dodging the call drained me far more than the conversation itself.

Brown’s work calls this “embracing the suck”—allowing ourselves to feel the full range of human emotion without armoring up. It’s not comfortable, but it’s where authenticity begins.

Learning to Stay

Since that day, I’ve tried to practice what I now call “micro-moments of staying.” They’re rarely dramatic: pausing before responding to criticism, breathing through a wave of sadness, admitting when I don’t know what to say.

Each time, my first instinct is still to flee—to distract myself or pretend everything’s fine. But I’ve learned that the discomfort is a doorway, not a dead end.

Here’s what helps me stay:

• Name the feeling. Instead of saying, “I’m fine,” I silently label the emotion: anxious, ashamed, sad, uncertain. Naming takes it out of the shadows.

• Breathe and ground. I notice my feet on the floor, the rise and fall of my chest. This simple awareness tells my nervous system that I’m safe, even if I’m uncomfortable.

• Allow imperfection. I remind myself that awkward pauses, trembling voices, and messy tears are signs of courage, not weakness.

These small practices don’t erase discomfort, but they keep me from running. They create a tiny pocket of space where choice lives—a chance to respond instead of react.

The Unexpected Gifts

Sitting with discomfort hasn’t made life easier, but it has made it richer. I’m more honest in relationships because I’m less afraid of conflict. I take creative risks because I can tolerate the vulnerability of failure. I even savor joy more fully, because I’m no longer numbing the feelings that come with it.

Brown often says that we can’t selectively numb emotions: when we numb the hard feelings, we numb the good ones too. I didn’t fully grasp that truth until I allowed myself to feel the hard things all the way through.

Discomfort, I’ve discovered, is not the enemy of peace. It’s the doorway to it. Peace isn’t the absence of difficult feelings; it’s the trust that we can meet them and still be whole.

An Ongoing Practice

I wish I could say I mastered this lesson in one day, but the truth is, I relearn it constantly. There are still conversations I postpone, truths I hesitate to speak, moments when fear wins. But each time I remember that Tuesday—the trembling hands, the long silences, the quiet relief afterward—I find the courage to stay a little longer.

Wholehearted living, as Brown calls it, isn’t a single decision. It’s a practice of showing up, again and again, even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s the daily choice to be real rather than safe, present rather than perfect.

The day I learned to sit with discomfort didn’t end with a triumphant revelation. It ended with two friends quietly saying goodbye, both a little braver than before. And that, I’ve learned, is more than enough.