Being alive just hurts sometimes.
Alongside the personal aches we each carry—in our bodies, our families, our hearts—the world itself seems to hurt: war, upheaval, and so much uncertainty. Wherever you are and whatever you’re holding, some amount of pain is probably part of the landscape.
Turning toward discomfort can seem strange, unappealing. But how we relate to the unpleasant holds a key to our wellbeing, resilience, and ability to work for change. It’s a gradual practice, but the results are palpable.
I’d like to share some tools that have helped me, and invite you to join an online daylong retreat next Friday, July 17, to practice together.
The question isn’t how to escape or manage hurt, but how to meet it.
One meditation teacher is fond of asking his students, “Why does your knee hurt when you meditate?” After entertaining a few answers, he smiles impishly, “Because you have a body.”
Whether it’s an injury, illness, aging or the ordinary hardships of being human, discomfort is part of being alive. How we relate to it can exacerbate our suffering, or become a doorway to freedom.
This is personal territory for me. I was diagnosed with a painful, chronic digestive condition at twenty-five. A decade later, I went through a complex case of Lyme disease. My spiritual practice has been a lifeline for living with these challenges. The older I get (and especially as a parent), the more important these tools have become.
Over the years, the body has become my teacher. Physical discomfort is pain in an immediate, often workable form. When that pain points to something we can change or heal, we do. Along the way, what we learn meeting an inflamed joint — patience, tenderness, curiosity — becomes a template for meeting every kind of hurt: grief, worry, heartbreak, even the anguish of witnessing suffering in our world.
The standard instruction most meditators receive is some version of “observe the pain.” But observation requires emotional balance. Without some steadiness inside, we don’t really observe discomfort — we just react to it, tightening or resisting in ways that compound the pain.
So rather than just trying “to be mindful,” we can draw on a more flexible set of tools. Here are five that have helped me most. They’re framed around physical pain, but each applies to whatever may be hurting in us—especially when the pain can’t simply be fixed.
1. Invite compassion
Start by creating an inner atmosphere of care. If a dear friend were hurting, how would you be with them? Try to bring that tenderness to yourself. This tone of care helps the body feel safer, and often allows it to soften rather than brace.
2. Explore the relationship
Notice how you are meeting the pain. Are you resisting? Fighting? Catastrophizing? See if you can soften that reactivity, even a little. Often it’s not the sensation itself but our struggle with it that hurts most.
3. Shift your attention
Pain can narrow our attention until it feels like there’s nothing else. And when pain is chronic, that can be exhausting. We can develop more resilience by learning to focus attention somewhere more neutral or pleasant — the warmth of the hands, sound, a beautiful scene. Actively choosing to connect with beauty and healthy pleasure isn’t avoidance; it restores balance in our nervous system.
4. Investigate with mindfulness
With some care and steadiness established, try to get curious. “Pain” is never one thing. It’s a constellation of sensations: pressure, heat, pulsing, contraction, all changing. Touch the edge of the pain briefly, then return to something grounding. Explore gently, at a pace that works for you.
5. Reflect with wisdom
Some pain is unavoidable—physically, emotionally, psychologically, even spiritually. Contrary to so many cultural messages, it’s not a personal failing to get sick or grow old. This is the nature of having a body. Recognizing our shared vulnerability transforms pain from something that isolates us into something that connects us to every being who has ever hurt.
Compassion is the ground of this entire process. We can practice continually returning to that tone of tenderness. Our joints hurt because we have bodies. Our hearts ache because we care. And when we can slow down enough to feel that hurt with tenderness, something opens on the other side.
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