My physical therapist has me doing this new workout that I grudgingly acknowledge is good for me.
Funny thing I’ve noticed, though. There are a couple of exercises where I have to do a thing for 60 seconds. It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m doing it, and then I hit a point where I am exasperated and frustrated and I am CERTAIN that the timer is stuck or broken because how can it still be going on?
And that happens at precisely 55 seconds.
Well, sometimes it’s 53 seconds and sometimes it’s 56 seconds. But I have a “discomfort” alarm inside me that appears to be robust and finely calibrated. It tells me it’s time to stop doing the thing.
I don’t quit, but I think about it. I curse. I have uncharitable thoughts about my personal trainer and why she’s making me do this and how I could be drinking my coffee in a comfortable chair instead.
It got me thinking about my clients. They come to me because they want to change. Something’s not quite right, and they’d like it to be better.
But also, maybe they don’t want to change. Because the discomfort they are living with is familiar and knowable. Changing means stepping into something unfamiliar; doing things that are new and feel a little awkward.
And through our work we actually engage with that discomfort. We sharpen their attunement to what they want, what they’ve been tolerating, and what they’ve been avoiding.
I actually told a client yesterday that a sign of progress would be that they’re even more frustrated than usual at the BS in their current job.
That shows up before hope does; before the off-ramp is completely ready, we’ve sharpened our ability to recognize the difference between tolerable and just-right.
I’ve learned not to waver when my clients report discomfort. Last month a client described how my coaching helped her through this, “It’s okay to feel the weight, that this is hard, and you listen to that, and then you say, ‘yeah, okay — but also get over yourself and do your networking outreach this week.’”
My physical therapist is a role model for this. She has a PhD. She trains Marines. She’s scary-smart and tough, and I pay her for her expertise.
Then I get mad at her for making me uncomfortable, and I wonder whether it’s really worth it.
But she doesn’t let me off the hook. She knows I can push through it.
And I know you can, too. You’re stronger than your fears, and on the other side of discomfort is growth and the change you crave.
I’ll see you there when you’re ready to start.
