Practicing Discomfort

Watching those who practice being uncomfortable

Lately, I’ve been paying close attention to comedians — not for the laughs, but for what their work asks of them.

Comedians notice the small, almost invisible things we do every day. The pauses. The contradictions. The ways we protect ourselves. The habits we fall into without realizing it. They observe humanity up close, dissect it, and then stand alone on a stage and say, “Here’s what I noticed.”

And then they wait.

They wait to see if it lands.
They wait to see if it offends.
They wait to see if it fails completely.

What fascinates me most is that they choose this discomfort — night after night — in service of their craft. They voluntarily put themselves in a position where judgment is immediate and unavoidable. Some nights they succeed. Some nights they bomb. And then they go back and do it again.

I don’t think that makes them fearless.
I think it makes them practiced.

A skill we no longer train

Our human instincts were shaped in environments that demanded regular engagement with discomfort.

Cold required movement.
Hunger required effort.
Fear required alertness.
Connection required proximity.

These instincts helped us survive in the forest.

But modern life looks very different from the environment our nervous systems evolved for. Today, discomfort is often optional — and frequently avoidable.

We can stay inside when it’s cold.
We can avoid physical exertion.
We can skip awkward gatherings.
We can disagree through screens instead of across tables.
We can have food delivered, problems automated, and friction smoothed away.

None of this is inherently wrong. Much of it is convenient and even necessary. But it does mean that many of our survival instincts no longer have a natural outlet.

We are wired for challenge — and increasingly surrounded by comfort.

When avoidance doesn’t make discomfort disappear

Avoiding discomfort doesn’t mean it disappears.

More often, it means it goes unexpressed.

When discomfort doesn’t move through the body or the voice — through effort, conversation, expression, or release — it doesn’t resolve. It lingers beneath the surface.

It settles.

It shows up later as irritability, anxiety, resentment, numbness, or exhaustion. We may not feel “in danger,” but our nervous systems remain activated all the same — just without a clear outlet or completion.

This is where comedians come back into the picture.

They don’t eliminate discomfort. They give it somewhere to go.

They take the awkward, the uncomfortable, the unspeakable, and they metabolize it through expression. They work with discomfort instead of numbing it, suppressing it, or pretending it isn’t there.

That’s the part I admire most.

Motherhood and the instinct to protect

Motherhood complicates this even further.

As mothers, our instinct to protect is deep and real. We don’t want our children to be cold, sad, embarrassed, or uncomfortable. I am just as guilty of this as anyone. I spend much of my day trying to smooth edges, soften experiences, and prevent discomfort before it arrives.

But motherhood is also one of the most discomfort-rich experiences there is.

Emotionally.
Physically.
Relationally.

And lately, I’ve been wondering if our constant effort to remove discomfort — for ourselves and for our children — may be working against us in subtle ways.

Not because discomfort is good.
But because it is unavoidable.

An ordinary moment that reveals a larger truth

Recently, after a stretch of cold, snowy weather, school resumed. Some parents were frustrated — worried about the cold, the sidewalks, the walk to the bus stop. It was a familiar tension: safety, comfort, logistics, care.

Cold brings that tension into focus.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s inconvenient. And it’s also a natural condition we don’t get to opt out of forever.

Cold exists. Heat exists. Discomfort exists. Nature doesn’t negotiate with our preferences. And interacting with those realities — in small, controlled ways — teaches something our heated homes cannot.

This isn’t about right or wrong choices.

It’s about what we learn when we allow manageable discomfort to be part of life instead of something to eliminate entirely.

Practicing discomfort before it finds us

What keeps coming back to me is this:

If we never practice small, manageable discomfort, we are less prepared for the ones we cannot control.

This is where my fascination with comedians fully connects.

They practice discomfort on purpose — being misunderstood, judged, disliked, or rejected — in a contained environment. Over time, their capacity grows. Their nervous systems learn: I can survive this.

Motherhood offers that same training ground — not on a stage, but in daily moments of frustration, disagreement, exhaustion, and emotional intensity.

The question isn’t how to eliminate discomfort.

It’s how to let it move.

Expression as regulation

This is why creative expression matters — writing, running, talking things out, creating music, painting, having honest conversations, even with people who think differently.

Expression gives discomfort somewhere to go.

When discomfort is expressed, it circulates.
When it isn’t, it calcifies.

Not everything needs to be fixed.
Not everything needs to be resolved.

But much of it needs to be moved.

Difference is not failure

Comedians know something else that feels increasingly rare: not everyone will agree with them.

Some people will laugh.
Some will be offended.
Some will walk out.

They accept differences as part of honest expression.

I wonder if what we’re really struggling with — in motherhood, in culture, online — isn’t disagreement itself, but our shrinking capacity to sit with it.

To hear a perspective without taking it as a threat.
To share an observation without needing universal approval.

Staying with what’s uncomfortable

Motherhood is full of joy.
And it is full of discomfort.

Both are teachers.

We don’t need to seek discomfort. But when it arrives — through cold mornings, hard conversations, emotional overload, or differing values — we can choose not to immediately numb it or rush past it.

We can stay.
We can notice.
We can express.

And little by little, our capacity grows.