Stepping Into Discomfort
The bus rattled through another stretch of highway. Twelve hours down, more to go. No phone to check, no laptop to retreat into. Just the hum of the engine and the chatter of classmates I barely knew. Before the trip my mind had been loud with warnings: no devices for a week, different roommates every night, long rides through unfamiliar cities, basic facilities, bland food—every comfort stripped away. I went anyway. Not because I was sure I'd handle it, but because I wanted the test: could I move without my usual crutches?
My parents worried and handed me packing checklists, convinced I'd forget something essential. They weren't wrong; I do forget things. But I wanted this—independence, or at least the feeling of it. The first trip was rough: long stretches of boredom punctuated by small, bright moments—jokes in the back of a van on safari, quick bonds over places none of us had seen. I made a few friends. By the second trip, a few more. Some students dropped out—the rides were too long, the food too bland, the facilities not good enough. Losing comfort was reason enough not to go. I stayed. Not because I was tougher, but because I wanted the experience more than the ease.
On Sunday mornings I carried that same impulse into the park. My mother's startup needed field marketing, and I volunteered. We approached strangers—families on benches, people walking dogs—and talked about the courses we offered. It was awkward. Some listened and nodded, then walked away. Some cut us off mid-sentence. A few asked questions and left contact information. I kept approaching. Not because I was good at it, but because there was something to learn inside the awkwardness of starting conversations with people who had no reason to care. Later, when I worked at the center itself, people came to us, but the test remained the same: stay present when every interaction takes effort, answer what's in front of you, direct them where they need to go, reset, repeat.
The internship was another variation: pilots, workshops, career fairs, a crowded room of polite disinterest. I'd introduce the platform, explain a feature, watch eyes glaze over or flicker with brief curiosity before moving on. Most interactions went nowhere. I kept showing up. Not because I enjoyed rejection, but because I wanted to learn how much awkwardness I could absorb before it became a reason to stop. It turns out, quite a lot. There's a rhythm to it: greet, demonstrate, release; greet, demonstrate, release. The result matters, but the practice changes you first.
None of this was comfortable. The trips tested my tolerance for unfamiliarity. The park tested my tolerance for indifference and interruption. The internship tested my willingness to persist when outcomes were sparse. I chose these situations on purpose. I wanted the adventure, yes—but also the boundaries to push. I wanted to see what remained when familiarity and ease were gone. Most people wait until they feel ready, until conditions line up. I began unready and learned to stay. The discomfort didn't vanish. I simply stopped needing comfort as a prerequisite.
There's a difference between courting pain and entering the unknown with open eyes. I don't hunt for struggle. I notice that fear arrives late for me, or not at all, where it arrives early for others; my nervous system tags chaos as data, not threat. That same wiring causes its own frictions—I miss cues, I forget agreements, I drift when instructions over-explain what I already half understand. But it leaves a clear lane in moments that would otherwise paralyze me. When it rains on opening night and a costume rips and the schedule collapses, I adjust what needs adjusting and continue. When a stranger interrupts mid-sentence, I pivot to the question they actually asked. When an event stalls, I do the unglamorous task that restarts it. This isn't bravado. It's a habit: shift one variable and keep moving.
The rewards are modest and real. On trips, I learned that boredom isn't a verdict; it's a bridge to the next connection. In the park, I learned that most nos are neutral, not personal. In the internship, I learned that persistence is measured in repetitions, not applause. I'm not immune to wanting comfort; I'm not proof against fatigue. I go home tired, sometimes more than tired. But the fear that once told me to wait—until I'm ready, until the path is smooth, until I can guarantee the outcome—has less authority now.
If there's a lesson, it's small and durable: discomfort doesn't have to be a stopping point. It can be where you start, and where you keep returning until the unfamiliar becomes usable, until the awkward becomes ordinary, until the unknown is simply the next thing you know how to enter. I don't claim mastery. I claim a way of moving—steady, present, ready to adapt.
And that's enough.