My Number One Goal Is Comfort

why discomfort feels like abandonment

I don’t think discomfort should exist. If I were king of the world, it wouldn’t. I’d outlaw it before breakfast. No more extreme temperatures, no more pain that won’t explain itself, no more spirals at 2 a.m. while everyone else sleeps like people who don’t have a care in the world. If comfort could be mandated, it would be the first and most important resolution I’d pass.

In fact, avoiding discomfort might be the most consistent goal I’ve pursued in my entire life, relentlessly, strategically, and with more conviction than a single 37-year-old looking for a man. I’ve dodged discomfort as if it were an over-talkative friend with halitosis, smiling politely while I say I’ve gotta go.

I don’t see an upside to it. Not when I imagine the anxiety that it’s going to gift me with, and I can’t catch a break, not when my to-do list won’t stop filling up, and the people who could make things easier don’t. I don’t feel spiritually refined when I’ve been put on hold for the fifth time, handed off between representatives who clearly didn’t read the notes. I feel hijacked, irritated, and oddly betrayed by a God who seems unbothered by how long all this is taking.

If this is sanctification, I’m not sure I’m interested.

I want peace, the kind He supposedly promised. And I want it now. I don’t want character. I don’t want endurance. I want resolution. And when it doesn’t come, when I’ve already done the faithful thing and nothing changes, when I’ve surrendered, journaled, prayed the right prayers, played worship music in the car, and I still wake up at 3:17 a.m. every single morning in a full-body ache of confusion, I start to wonder if God and I are working from the same playbook.

Discomfort Feels Like Abandonment

Because discomfort doesn’t feel like a part of the plan. It feels like abandonment. It feels like spiritual silence. I know we are supposed to trust in these moments. But the truth is, trust doesn’t feel like trust when you’re inside of it. It feels like being alone and trapped in a room without any doors or windows. It’s like a spiritual game of chicken: Will you stay faithful even when I don’t fix this? Or will you bolt at the last moment, reaching for any comfort you can find? Will you wait without answers? Or try to find the answers yourself?

I know what trust is supposed to be. I know the verses. I know the language of surrender and peace, and leaning not on my own understanding. But discomfort is like putting a frog in a pot and turning the heat up slowly. The boil seems to come out of nowhere. And that sudden realization means panic rather than calm.

Which moves me from trusting in God to trusting in my own response time. If I can act fast enough, explain clearly enough, adapt flawlessly enough, everything will be ok, and the comfort will return. It’s like I subconsciously believe that if I can only prevent discomfort, I can earn peace, and that comfort means staying ahead of loss.

The Root of Discomfort

Okay, maybe it’s obvious now, discomfort seems to be unearthing what I actually trust. And most of the time, it isn’t God, especially when even the slightest potential for discomfort is involved. What I’m looking for isn’t resiliance. It’s control. It’s competence, momentum, reputation, the absence of friction, the illusion that I’m doing fine because nothing feels wrong. It’s all the things.

So maybe the question isn’t whether discomfort should exist. Maybe the real question is what discomfort exposes when it does. What it reveals about how we measure God’s presence, what we reach for first, and who we trust when relief doesn’t come.

I’m not ready to answer all of that yet. But I am ready to stop pretending the question doesn’t matter. For now, I’m letting it sit until next time.

Any thoughts would be welcome.

Note: This piece is part of a short, in-progress book on discomfort. I’ll be posting one chapter a week as it unfolds, looking for your thoughts.