As I was helping my friend clean up the aftermath of a burst pipe on a sunny winter day in Montana, I couldn’t help but notice a stark contrast in our reactions to the situation. While my friend remained composed, treating the incident as if it were a routine chore, I felt my own body respond with a wave of anxiety tight across my chest, constricting the air in my lungs. Adrenaline surged through my veins, increasing my heart rate in an attempt to outpace the chaos at hand. And through a haze of cognitive distortion, I had the inexplicable urge to clean the water up like my life depended on it.
Along with this panic, a flash of emotions boiled within me – feelings of shame, judgment, and blame swirled together like a tempest. Despite the situation being beyond anyone’s control, I felt responsible for the break and resulting water damage. Reality began to blur as memories transported me back in time to a place of fear and uncertainty, where every misstep elicited harsh reprimands and every failure was met with disappointment, even if they were not my own. I could practically hear the sharp and accusatory displeasure of my father, once so familiar, reverberating through the room like a haunting melody. A ghost from my past. It dawned on me that this reaction of mine was disproportionate to the situation at hand. The leak was contained, water no longer rushed in, and there was no imminent danger threatening my existence or sense of self. It became clear that this wasn’t just about water on the floor. It was a visceral reminder of the tumultuous emotions I had faced as a child in the shadow of my father’s temper.
I began to realize the burst pipe was a trigger, unveiling a part of me in need of attention and healing. Each sensation, every emotion, and the ensuing thoughts served as messengers signaling the existence of unresolved trauma lurking within. In the wise words of Pema Chödrön, moments like these “… teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck.” In other words, these moments aren’t merely discomfort to be avoided, but rather opportunities to confront our vulnerabilities and grow.
Recognizing this, I faced a pivotal moment of self-awareness. Instead of succumbing to the familiar cycle of panic and urgency, I made a conscious choice to confront the underlying emotions with compassion. I allowed myself to acknowledge that despite feeling unsafe, I was in a safe space within the home of a trusted friend. Tears became the conduit through which I released decades of self-blame, judgment, and feelings of worthlessness. I surrendered to the experience, no longer fighting emotions I prefer to suppress, and instead allowed myself to be enveloped by them. Consumed. At its peak, the pain was practically unbearable, I felt terrifyingly alone and helpless. But soon enough the intensity waned, and a strange calm settled over me, much like the eerie stillness after a powerful storm that leaves one wondering what might have changed, uncertain if anything familiar remains in its wake.
Amidst the catharsis, a simmering undercurrent of anger began to surface. A resentment toward my father for his role in shaping my struggles, toward the unpredictable nature of life’s challenges, toward my own reactivity, and to the perceived unfairness of it all. Yet, I can’t fully acknowledge my own hardships without also recognizing the wounds my father carries. His own history with trauma – a tumultuous past, marked by a father confined to an iron lung, custody battles, housing instability, and food scarcity – had left its mark on him, just like it has on me.
I acknowledge the complexity of our relationship. Despite his flaws, my father also imparted valuable lessons on how to save money and be financially responsible, independent, to leave places better than I find them, and to work hard, but not take life too seriously. Thanks to him, I’ve also learned countless lessons on how not to treat others. I could easily demonize him, reducing his character to my lowest memories of him. I could even attribute much of my struggles to him, but reality is more nuanced than that.
For better or for worse, I wouldn’t be who I am today without my father. He helped lay the foundation from which I have built my life, the foundation that’s contributed to both my deepest hardships and greatest successes. While I could not control what happened during my upbringing, I do have choice in how I respond to the challenges I now face as an adult. And in this choice lies the power to transform pain into growth and adversity into strength.
Imperfect as he is, my father also broke down many barriers for me, affording me opportunities and comforts that he never had. For instance, I always had a stable bed to sleep in, food that I enjoyed, the comfort of a warm home, and the opportunity for an education. Now it’s my turn to continue the progress he started, understanding that no one gets through life unscathed, and that the time we have on this earth is a journey of healing for us all.
I used to believe that healing meant erasing emotional wounds entirely, so that they no longer impact my life. However, I’ve come to realize that perhaps true healing lies not in fixing wounds so they are absent, but in simply acknowledging the wounds exist. That they may always exist. Instead of viewing each trauma response as something negative, I can practice viewing them as reminders that I’m human, that I’ve been shaped by experiences beyond my control, but they don’t define me.
I cannot change my past, and I am who I am because of it. In spite of it. And each time I allow myself to sit with the discomfort that I carry, to confront it with compassion instead of resistance, I begin to glimpse the possibility of true healing and internal peace – a journey not marked by the absence of pain, but by the courage to embrace it.
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For the full quote by Pema Chödrön on discomfort; from the book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times:
Generally speaking, we regard discomfort in any form as bad news. But for… people who have a certain hunger to know what is true – feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck.
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