Making Space for Pain:  Welcoming What You Didn’t Choose

I’ve been sitting here for 3 hours, trying to write a blog post about perfectionism and I haven’t written one. single. word.  You might assume this is the ironic intro about how my own perfectionism is getting in the way, and there may be an element of that.  But what’s really going on is that I’m in pain.

My foot hurts. 

I’ve been hobbling around on crutches for a week, which is getting old and is frankly making me feel old.  I’m not sure how I even injured myself, it’s just one of those maladies you sometimes wake up with.  Bodies take longer to heal with every decade we haul ourselves around and I’m in my mid-5^th decade.  Young by some standards, but also older than I’ve ever been. 

Pain comes in a vivid assortment of shapes.  Heartbreak. Disappointment (in ourself or in others).  Longing for something you don’t have or a version of life you can see, but can’t quite seem to reach.  Loss of someone you love and the grief that comes in waves.  Physical pain, whether small and nagging or chronic and life-changing.  That low-level buzz of a decision you know needs to be made, but are dreading and resisting. 

The other shoe that you know will drop. 

When I don’t feel good, I tend to go all existential and think about the big things like life, death and what it all means.  What I don’t like to do is “give in” and take time off.  It usually takes someone reminding me that’s an option before I’ll stop.  

If that’s you too, then let me be that voice:  It’s ok to not be ok.  It’s ok to stop.

You’re allowed to get in your jammies at 2:00 p.m.  To have cereal for dinner.  To cry and not hide your tears.  Put on some Van Morrison and stand in the shower until the hot water runs out. 

Welcoming the Pain

I hear you.  Why would we “welcome” pain of any kind?  

Before we can feel better, we have to first let the pain in.  Pushing it away 1) won’t work for long and 2) may be standing in the way of healing. 

We all go through painful times.  There’s no avoiding it.  We’re never ready.  But we can still be active participants in the shaping life by getting comfortable with the discomfort.  Pain is pointing you toward what needs tending.

Give it a Name

Stop for a minute and close your eyes.  If you had to tell someone right now where it hurts or what feels broken, what would you say?  Some shades of pain that come up often for people in therapy:

• My relationship isn’t working out
• I think I’m about to lose my job
• I feel alone

Why Does it Hurt?

There’s the thing itself, then there’s what we fear it will mean.  That’s the big one. 

The examples I named above are nearly universal experiences that nip at the heels of our sense of safety, security, even survival. 

In my experience it’s hard enough to feel bad, but it’s exponentially worse to feel like there’s no reason for the depth of our pain.  We can be so hard on ourselves when we’re in pain too, talking to ourselves in a way we would never speak to someone we love, as we attempt to push away the pain. 

Naming the “why” can help us feel compassion toward ourselves. 

Tell Someone

Share what’s weighing on you.  Sometimes just saying it out lout will turn down the volume on the pain. 

If you can’t bring yourself to say it to someone, write it down.  Just get it out in a really honest, no-BS kind of way. 

Externalizing the pain:  naming it, digging for the “why,” and using your words to get it out of the swirl in your head, will let you get a better sense of what it is and begin to heal. 

Healing:  Endings and Beginnings

The monster we imagine in the dark is always worse than it appears when we switch on the light.  Getting an accurate look at the scary beast by sitting in its presence may not instantly make it less of a threat, but it will help fortify you for what’s next. 

Making space for pain is the first step in healing.  Like all things that are worthwhile, it takes time, care, and attention. 

I’m going to go ice my foot and let myself process how this injury makes me miss and value my usual independence.  I’ve cried.  I’ve externalized these thoughts by talking to friends, including you as I write this.  The pain is still there, but it feels less heavy now.