Staying a little longer… with things that are discomforting

It’s been a while since I’ve written here, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous coming back.

And all this while away, something has quietly shifted in the way I look at life. I’ve felt… fuller. Fuller in a way that’s hard to explain in words, but quite easy to experience. Full of life, of wonder, of a kind of quiet amazement for the world around me. I’ve been thinking more about time, about how I spend it, and I’ve noticed myself slowing down just enough to take in the smaller, more ordinary things around me. The kind anyone would usually walk past without giving a second thought.

Life has also felt fuller lately, in the best possible way, because I’ve been doing a lot of things at the same time, and I’ve realised that I’m at my best when my days feel stretched, when my checklist is long and never really comes to an end. And when it does, I tend to go looking for more, almost instinctively, as though I’m trying to hold on to that feeling of momentum that comes with having something to work towards.

That’s how I ended up starting something slightly unreasonable. Running every single day this year.

I didn’t think I would be able to keep up with it for long, but somehow, I’ve just kept showing up with my running shoes and my phone carrying just enough battery for Strava to do its job. And today marks the 105th day of doing exactly that, even on the days when I didn’t feel like it. I showed up at the starting line on days my feet hurt from hosting events in uncomfortable heels, on the days filled with the chaos and hurry-burry of family weddings, and even on days that began with early morning flights or ended far too late at night.

And maybe it’s this quiet habit of choosing something slightly uncomfortable every day that made me notice what I did next.

After one of my runs, I was walking through a reflexology park, the kind with textured paths where you’ll often see older people carefully making their way across, sometimes with someone beside them for support. One path was flat, smooth, and easy to walk on, even barefoot. The other was covered in small, uneven stones that pressed into your heels with every step, which, if you’ve ever gone for a run, you’ll know is the last thing your body asks for.

I kept moving between the two, stepping onto the smoother path when I wanted relief, and then returning to the stones, even though each step demanded a little more attention, a little more effort, and a willingness to stay with the discomfort just a bit longer than felt natural.

And somewhere in that quiet back-and-forth, even as I occasionally lost my balance, I found myself pausing, almost without realising why.

As I stood there, I began to notice what I was actually feeling with each step, because the difference between the two paths wasn’t just physical, it was almost instinctive. The smooth path allowed me to switch off, to walk without thinking, to move forward without needing to adjust anything about the way I was stepping or carrying myself. But the moment I stepped onto the stones, everything changed, because suddenly I had to be present, I had to pay attention to where I was placing my foot, how much pressure I was applying, and how long I was willing to stay there before instinctively stepping away. It wasn’t comfortable, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t enjoy it, because there was a constant urge to escape it, to move back to the path that didn’t ask anything of me.

And yet, I kept returning to it.

Because so much of our lives is spent choosing the smoother path, the one that feels easier to walk on, the one that doesn’t demand too much from us, the one that lets us keep moving without really having to stop and notice what we’re doing.

We choose what is familiar, what is predictable, what doesn’t stretch us beyond what we already know we can handle. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, because ease has its place, and not everything in life needs to feel difficult all the time. But the moments that truly shape us rarely come from that place. They come from the conversations we hesitate to have, the decisions we delay because we’re unsure of the outcome, the situations that make us slightly uncomfortable because they ask us to show up… differently.

They come from the spaces where we can’t move mindlessly, where we’re forced to pay attention, to adjust, to stay present in a way that the smoother paths never require us to.

And maybe that’s why we resist them so much.

Because discomfort slows us down, and in slowing us down, it makes us aware. It shows us where we are unsure, where we are avoiding, and where we still have room to grow. The smooth path lets us continue as we are. The uneven one asks us to become something more.

And I don’t think I’ll always choose the harder path, and neither should you, because I know how easy it is to slip back into comfort without even realising it.

But maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe the point is simply to notice when we do, and to choose differently sometimes, and to stay a little longer in the places that ask more of us, even when we don’t feel ready for it.

Because if a few uneven stones can make you more aware of how you walk, maybe a few uncomfortable moments can do the same for the way you live.

Until next time, Team Ponder