Tuesday Thoughts and pain

Hi Friends, 

How are you? I trust you found value in the reflection questions from last week's blog. It's one of our tricks of the trade as coaches; to ask the right questions. 

Today, as life would have it, I will tell you about pain. I was inspired to tackle this subject because I was hit with physical pain lately. Pain is such an annoyance, isn't it? It interrupts. It inconveniences. It demands attention we didn’t plan to give. It can be a heaviness we carry, a sharp stabbing that takes our breath away, or a dull ache that becomes a background hum in our days.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to know pain personally — in many forms.

I know emotional pain. I lived inside a marriage that brought a deep ache to my heart, a loneliness that no one else could see. It was the kind of emotional pain that erodes your spirit slowly, like water wearing down stone.

I know physical pain. A few weeks ago, I had shingles — the nerve pain was so fierce, so sharp, it felt like fire under my skin. It was a reminder that my body, too, can cry out in ways I can't control.

I’ve watched people I love in pain. A dear friend of mine suffered terrible nerve pain after hip surgery. I saw the brightness in her eyes dim as she tried to manage something no one could fix for her.

Just recently, I watched my tiny granddaughter battle an upper respiratory virus. She coughed and struggled for breath, and my daughter and I sat by not 100% helpless, but pretty affected by her pain.. There’s a particular kind of pain that comes from watching someone you love hurt — especially when they are too small to understand why it’s happening.

Pain, clearly, is unavoidable.

No matter how smart we are, how healthy we try to stay, how many precautions we take — pain is part of being alive. But there’s a saying you may have heard:

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

What does that even mean? I asked myself that many times. What is your answer to that?  Could it mean that while we cannot escape pain, we can choose how we respond to it? I have to confess, sometimes it just feels good to vent, and complain. I honestly think it shouldn't be that looked down upon. In my book, it needs to be step one; before I can ever reach the steps where I breathe and accept what is. I am by no means advertising that we stay in complain mode. That's the suffering, or rather the victim side of pain. Why me and I can't change anything mode of operation.

Pain is what happens to us — the diagnosis, the heartbreak, the injury, the loss. Suffering is the story we tell ourselves about the pain. Suffering happens when we resist pain, deny it, fight it, or believe that it shouldn’t be happening. It happens when we add judgment, fear, anger, or shame on top of the raw experience.

When I had shingles, the physical pain was brutal — but the real suffering came when I told myself, “This isn’t fair,” or “I am not old enough.” " I take care of myself, why is this happening?" When my marriage was falling apart, or rather, the years preceding to the falling apart, the grief was heavy — but I suffered most when I clung to the idea that “This should be different” or “I’m failing" and "Why me?"

Acceptance is not about liking the pain. It’s about meeting it as it is, without piling on extra layers of resistance. Acceptance doesn't mean we stop hoping for healing or that we enjoy being uncomfortable. It means we choose to stay present with what is, even as we hope for what could be. It looks like taking one moment at a time instead of spiraling into worst-case scenarios. It looks like being gentle with ourselves when we cry, when we need to rest, when we don’t have the answers.

Acceptance says,

"This hurts — and I can still breathe through it.This is hard — and I am still standing."

That could be our affirmation this week!

 Acceptance also means we stop making pain personal. It’s not because we failed, or because life is punishing us, or because we are broken. Pain is not a verdict. It’s simply part of being human. When we see it that way, without shame, without blame, something inside us relaxes. We find a small pocket of peace, even inside the storm. I want to highlight and write this paragraph in bold letters, so you really see it. Just read it again.

When I sat next to my coughing grand baby, I couldn’t take her pain away but I could be there. I could breathe alongside her. I could choose not to spin into helplessness or panic, but to stay grounded in love.

We can’t avoid pain. Not ours and not the pain of loved ones.  But we can meet it with presence instead of panic. We can grieve with grace. We can heal without fighting every step of the way.

Pain is part of life. Suffering — that is optional.

You are loved. Deeply loved. Loved beyond measure.

Until next time,

Isabelle

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