uncomfortable
I’ve been wildly uncomfortable lately, or at least much more aware of its presence.
I stumbled on this realization shortly after one of my first encounters with a public toddler fit. My daughter, now age 1, has been acquainting herself with some newfound independence. Armed with a handful of random words and a strong shake of the head, she’s learning to exercise her voice and making her preferences known. While I encourage the testing of boundaries, I’ve not yet mastered the practices of new age conscious parenting, i.e. refraining from automatic yelling. Having no time to gather my thoughts I was immediately triggered, undone by my little one’s moment of frustration and kicking into management mode instead of making room. From that moment on the rest of day became a blur. I was moving from one triggering moment to the next when I finally plopped on the couch and released a deep sigh. Soon after I began to let my husband in on the emotional turmoil. “She was much more predictable before. Now, it’s different and I’m having a hard time with it.”, I shared.
“If there is any theme more prominent in the generational split it is discomfort.”
It takes a lot out of me to be uncomfortable especially when it magnifies how much control I truly lack in any given situation. It is riddled in unpredictability. Unpredictability almost always saves a seat for disappointment. And disappointment is the last thing I want to deal with as a type A. Understandably my inclination is to cling to comforts. Admittedly, I’m a creature of habit. I feast on bread and coffee every morning long after my palette has changed simply because I cannot bring myself to break familiar patterns. I’m at home with predictability. It’s constant. It’s safe. It’s physically comforting. The real bind is in the emotional tie I’ve created with expected, predictable outcomes. Buttered toast doesn’t disappoint unless it sizzles over a skillet coated in seasonings you didn’t ask for.
I’m incredibly self aware. My ability to apply truths however, severely lacking. Regardless of those two facts, my conscious mind is aware of this: A place of zero risk and comfort gives birth to nothing more than slow death. Even pregnancy, as beautiful of a process as it is, requires the body to grow — pulling and stretching skin and pushing organs in ways that are new, itchy, unfamiliar, and, more than anything, uncomfortable. Without that stretch the body cannot make room for a life to grow let alone develop the muscle memory to accommodate future pregnancies.
Personally, I think to be fully human is to be in a perpetual state of discomfort. It’s necessary for growth, change, endurance, faith, and much more. The last two years have been nothing short of rapid fire. An expedited package of uncomfortable circumstances. It’s left plenty of snags in my fabric, many of which have separated from the body of threads that once held so tightly. Had it not been for those unfortunate snags I would continue to snuggle under a blanket of fears.
“A place of zero risk and comfort gives birth to nothing more than slow death.”
If there is any theme or state more prominent in generational splits it is discomfort — being uncomfortably unfamiliar, uncomfortably unwelcome, uncomfortably other. It is from those uncomfortable moments, both existing and the ones hurdled, that traditions, aspirations, and people have evolved. So with that, 2022 will be the year for breaking comforts starting with a breadless January.
If there is anything you should know about me it is that I’m a carb baby and am very serious about morning bread. I’m a cafe con pan first generation Dominican. I will cross state lines for fresh loaves. It is only right to challenge myself where it hurts, and prove to my husband that my pride is too deep to lose at my own bet. With that said, let the stretching begin.
