On Pain.

Ernest Hemingway told me to “write hard and clear about what hurts.” I tried that approach; it seemed simple and straight-forward.

I found myself making things up for the sake of having tangible evidence of what pains me. The thing is I don’t always know the origin of the hurt. For instance, last night, when I was mindlessly transferring wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, a pain struck me so fiercely that it almost took my breath away.

That pain morphed into a lonely, hollow discomfort that lingered on through the night. I wonder if I can feel the hurt of my loved ones; if there’s a higher form of myself that doesn’t want to see them ache, so I willingly take on some of their gloom.

It’s as if a deal is being made between two strangers in a dimly lit alley during the dead of night. “Can you take some of me on for a minute? I’m worried the weight of my feeling is crushing the vessel I’ve taken up residence in,” says one dark trench coat to another. “Sure, I can do that. But I won’t have time to give my vessel any warning,” says the other. “That’s okay; this is urgent, please, take whatever you think your vessel can manage.”

It’s kind of humorous to think that pain would work in such a way; with a conscious. But really, it makes sense.

 I believe that pain doesn’t want to be in our lives just as much as we don’t want it there; that it’s a necessary and mandatory feeling we must take on in order to fully live the human experience, but that it also feels uncomfortable when people define themselves by it. I’m of the conviction that pain is only meant to be temporary, that yes, while it is recurring, it only ever packs itself in a weekend suitcase. It presents itself when we’re in slumps to create great harvests in our lives; benevolently planting seeds so as to make a more bountiful reaping.

Without the discomfort of pain there would be no gain worth attaining; we wouldn’t know what it feels like to scale mountains of tribulation, and the high that comes with making it to the other side. We wouldn’t be able to understand the words triumph, joy, comfort, happiness, grace, and humility. Highs would not really be highs because we would have no lows to compare and contrast them to. The indescribable way it feels to see a loved one in the flesh after days apart would be lost on us. We wouldn't begin to know how to relate to someone who is mourning the loss of a life. There would be no talk of wild, daring, and bold adventures because we would grow to be complacent and apathetic. Yes, pain is rough; sometimes it feels relentless and unfair. But just as sure as the sun sets to rest every evening, it too will eventually pack up its weekend suitcase and pass.

Main Takeaways:




Pain sucks, but it's temporary.

We grow from pain.


Happiness is a choice you have to make countless times a day.