Growing Pains

When my daughter was young, she used to get the most horrific growing pains. The deep, throbbing, and sometimes shooting pains would take hold of her legs and cause tears to fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She would rub them and I would rub them until our hands were almost raw. And we both literally lost sleep over them. We tried warm baths and heating pads and muscle creams, but nothing really seemed to alleviate the pain except time. They would eventually go away in the same mysterious way in which they had arrived. 

When you do an internet search for "growing pains," you learn that, despite the moniker, they are not necessarily associated with growth. Some sites even suggest that there is no evidence that growth hurts, but here I must disagree. Even if the so-called growing pains are not caused directly by the stretching and elongating of bones and muscles, the fact that the pain is felt means that those muscles and bones are not yet strong enough to support whatever activities the child has engaged in, and until they are, there will be pain associated with their usage. The same is true for people (young or old) who exercise. You don't run your first mile without feeling some pain in your body. And when running a mile doesn't hurt anymore, you will feel new pain when you decide to start running three or four miles. Growth is always accompanied by pain. 

What's true for the body is also true for the mind. When we choose to or are forced to grow mentally and emotionally strong, we will feel pain as we face our demons and take responsibility for our choices and experiences. I am deeply committed to personal growth, which means I am often deliberately putting myself in the uncomfortable position of self-examination--although I will admit, I'm relatively new to this and actually spent years avoiding really examining myself at all, in an effort to minimize pain in my life. (Spoiler alert: I still had pain--and lots of it! But because I wasn't regularly examining myself and taking responsibility for my own contributions to my suffering, I found myself confused about where it was coming from, blaming Fate and other people, and adopting a victim mentality. The pain was still there, but I effectively made myself powerless to overcome it. I don't beat myself up over these years though, because you only know what you know when you know it.) These days, I am looking myself in the eye and asking myself hard questions and taking responsibility for the parts of me that aren't very lovely or that aren't as lovely as I would like them to be. And facing those things is unpleasant and painful in many ways. Taking a deep look requires that you either accept what you see as the best you can be or decide to make a change. Change is always hard. And growth hurts. But as with exercise, it's worth it when you feel the pride of overcoming obstacles, living a healthier life, and becoming your best self. 

Not only is it painful for me to grow; it is also sometimes painful (or at least inconvenient) to others for me to grow. 

My oldest son has a wonderful sense of humor, and laughing and making others laugh is one of his great passions. He loves to joke around, and he enjoys trying to get a rise out of others--not in a mean-spirited way, but just to keep things light and funny and maybe slightly shocking. For him, it's all about getting a reaction. I definitely have a track record of taking myself too seriously, so there have been times when I have not been able to laugh at his jokes or have taken offense at them. I have occasionally reacted with shock and horror, which sort of delights him, rather than mirth, which he would also accept. One day this week, he was trying to get a rise out of me, and I didn't react the way he thought I would. In fact, I didn't really react too much at all, which prompted him to declare, "I see you're growing again, which makes this not as much fun." I don't believe he was actually disappointed in me, and I believe he does support my growth, but this silly situation got me thinking seriously about how my growth doesn't just affect me. 

My personal growth will change my reactions and the way I show up in situations, and this can be uncomfortable and inconvenient for other people, especially people I have a close enough relationship with that there are expectations for how we behave towards each other in particular situations. Some people may be able to see and support my growth and adjust to new ways of interacting with me. But other people will be offended by my growth and will actually try to discourage it in subtle and non-subtle ways, so that they don't have to grow and change themselves. I am learning that people who don't genuinely support my growth are not my people. I am trying to surround myself with people who encourage and facilitate my growth, and I'm trying to be that kind of person for others. Growth is painful enough as it is. No need to multiply the growing pains by letting someone else's discomfort dictate how and when I grow.

Saltwater Cures

 

© Mandi Watts

I have loved this quote for as long as I've been aware of it. The truth of it is simple yet so profound, and it absolutely holds up in practice in my life. When I feel stressed or overwhelmed or lost, I can often remedy my situation by adding saltwater in one of these forms. Just in the last week, I have employed all of them at various times, and I can feel healing running through my body and mind.

It's interesting, though, because in that cure there is also pain. A workout that produces sweat is not an easy or lightweight one. It requires much of your body, which may feel difficult in the moment and may leave you sore for days afterward. The grief, hurt, and stress that produce tears do not feel like healing in the moment. In fact, I just read a quote in Sarah Pearse's book, The Sanatorium, that sort of sums up how grief works: "Grief is like a series of bombs exploding, one after another. Every hour, a new detonation. Shock after shock after shock." Sometimes we have to cry loads of tears over the same grief before we start to feel some relief. And the sea, while beautiful to look at, will find every tiny cut or scrape on your body--ones you didn't even know you had--and it will burn like fire. But you will continue walking down the beach with your toes in the water because the reward is greater than the pain. In every instance, the pain is real and can be wildly intense. But on the other side of the pain, there is healing. So I will continue seek out these lovely saltwater cures and allow them to do their work in me. 

Healing Hurts...But It's Worth It

A good friend of mine posted a beautiful bit of wisdom on Instagram about the pain of healing, and it struck a deep, resonating chord with me, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. He talked about how painful physical therapy is for a person trying to recover from an injury, but how the experts in that field know just how much pressure to put and just how hard to push to ensure that the damaged and weakened body part becomes functional and strong again. His post was talking about how stoic philosophy can work in similar ways, touching us in ways that may feel uncomfortable at first, but that eventually lead to our healing. The truth of it met me where I was. 

But as I pondered the physical therapy analogy, my mind snapped to a few years ago when I obliterated my ACL and tore my meniscus to shreds, and I realized it might also be experiences, and not just philosophies, that hit those pressure points to make us stronger. I was pleased to recognize that my knee injury still had lessons to teach me even after all this time. The moment of the injury was shocking and painful, but honestly, that pain was nothing compared to the surgery and months of physical therapy I had to endure to get back to the point of normal functionality. I can't tell you how many times I sat on the therapy table with tears streaming down my face because what the therapist was asking me to do was truly excruciating. Some days I wanted to quit. Some days I wanted to feel sorry for myself. My mind wanted to say, "I CAN'T do this. And, even if I could, I'm not at all sure I WANT to. The pain is just too much." But then the therapist would ask me to do just one more rep, and I would wipe away the tears and do it because ultimately I wanted to be stronger, and I knew the only way to the other side of the pain was through it. 

Hiking at Machu Picchu was the particular goal I had in mind as I endured those torture sessions, and I didn't want my lack of effort months before a trip that was already booked to hinder me from experiencing everything amazing that destination promised. So, I cried and I cussed and I called my therapist a sadist, but I did what was asked of me. I didn't have to put in the work, of course. I could have quit at any time. But I knew there was something beautiful waiting for me on the other side of it. I sometimes didn't know if I would reach that goal, especially early on in my therapy. But I kept working and celebrating the little victories along the way. Nine months later, I was fully rewarded for my efforts when I traversed the difficult landscape of Machu Picchu and saw with my own eyes the awe-inspiring dream destination I had fallen in love with on the pages of National Geographic when I was a child. It was even more awe-inspiring to realize I had been carried there on a knee that had once been barely functional. The healing process was absolute hell, but the view from the mountain was worth every minute. 

I am currently in another season of healing. But this time it isn't a physical injury I'm recovering from. It doesn't matter. The process is the same. I have often sat on the edge of my bed with tears running down my face saying to myself, "I CAN'T do this. And even if I could, I'm not sure I WANT to. The pain is just too much." I'm sometimes tempted to just give up and wallow in self-pity. But then, from somewhere deep inside me, a little voice says, "Go ahead and see if you can get through just one more day. See if you can get just a little bit stronger." So, I wipe away the tears and lean into that pain so that I can come out on the other side and enjoy the mountaintop experience. This mountain, like Machu Picchu, isn't a place you just accidently arrive. It requires steady effort, determination, philosophies, and experiences that push and prod the tender places. I could certainly quit any time, but I would miss out on the growth and strengthening that leads to the awe-inspiring destination. No doubt: healing hurts. But coming out on the other side is definitely worth the effort put in.