Are You Too Comfortable With Comfort?

 

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

It was a warm June morning when I laced up my running shoes. One of my good friends signed up for a 50-mile back-country race and asked me to pace for him the last 26 miles.

The race course changes every year and the race organizers were not careful with measuring the distances to each aid station so my 26 mile leg turned into 31 miles.

31 miles!

It was a hard run through mostly back country on rocky trails. Honestly, I don’t understand the appeal at all to run that far, but that friend had been there for me during a pretty difficult time in my life so I was returning the favor.

We joked before the event that ultramarathons are really eating contests with some running in between. The way ultramarathons work is that you have to reach certain aid stations by a specified time or you’re not allowed to continue the race. We were okay on time until we hit the bottom of Bosun’s Hill which was a grueling climb almost 1,000 vertical feet essentially straight up the mountainside. If we were moving a quarter mile per hour I would be surprised.

Following the intense training of that summer and the event itself, I didn’t slow down much. I set a personal running milestone in 2023, ending the year with more than 1,400 miles under my soles.

In many respects, those were pretty uncomfortable years. I ran 200 miles in December 2023 when it’s typically below 30 degrees in the early morning hours. I had to work through multiple injuries sustained from running too far and too hard on worn out muscles.

Since then, however, I’ve basically given up running. Stress and anxiety have been my go to excuses for not exercising. It’s interesting that running used to be my primary stress relief until the stress got so bad that I couldn’t deal with it by running anymore. So naturally, stopping running was the correct choice, right?

Wrong!

Before I go any further, I don’t want to minimize the impact of mental health on everyday things like exercise. There have been days in the last year when I’ve slept very few hours a night for sometimes weeks on end and have been in survival mode. Exercising and self-care were fleeting thoughts and perceived luxuries I didn’t have time for amidst everything else I was trying to do.

Exempting times of illness and other legitimate struggles, a hallmark of Western society is how hard many people work. In fact, did you know that the United States is the only industrialized country in the world that doesn’t have federally-mandated paid vacation or holidays? We also tend to work more hours per year than other countries.

For years, I’ve used my employer as a scapegoat for many of the troubles in my life. I’ve worked for companies to which I’ve given heart and soul, and I’ve complained loudly and often about the situation.

The irony: I always got comfortable with my situation.

Wake up. Go to work. Work too many hours. Come home. Do it again the next day. If I wasn’t working, I was wasting my wife’s time talking to her about work or complaining to my kids about my boss.

Five weeks ago, I quit my job to start a software development business. It’s something I’ve been dreaming and scheming about for more than 15 years. Now that it’s here, the stress and anxiety of running my own business and being responsible for my own employees has been a wake-up call.

Make no mistake, there have been few events in my life that have excited me as much as this opportunity, but it’s also made me realize that I was too comfortable with my comfort in having a full-time job working for someone else.

People draw lots of analogies in life to marathons. It should be noted, however, that even the most extreme ultramarathons last fewer than 60 days. So many other things in life require deliberate, consistent effort akin to running a marathon, but the effort is required day after day for months or even years.

And when you look at the amount of effort required to accomplish certain things, like learning a new programming language, they start to look a lot like Bosun’s Hill.

I think that’s one of the predominant features of unstarted projects and goals. We look at them as though they need to be accomplished all at once. And, when what we really want isn’t in alignment with the goal, we’re not likely to make long-term progress.

Looking at Bosun’s Hill, we had a choice: give up there and walk to the nearest road where someone could pick us up or push hard enough to make it to the aid station. When we decided to forge ahead, we knew significant discomfort would be our companion. Several times, as we stopped to rest, we cursed the race organizers for putting such a difficult climb so far into the race.

We pressed on as quickly as our fatigued legs would go. Aid station eight was just beyond the crest of the hill, nestled in a beautiful valley high in the Wasatch Mountains above Provo. We made it with only minutes to spare, dropped our packs, and after helping my friend sit down, I walked to the table to get small Dixie cups filled with soda, a few handfuls of M&Ms, and these oversized, heavily salted, dumpling-like potato-and-pasta creations. After 20 miles on my feet, they were one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.

Growth is always accompanied by a degree of discomfort, even if the discomfort is minor. Rapid growth often requires significant discomfort and considerable sacrifice. The other option, however, is complacency.

For the most part, I was really good at my job. I helped write grants and close deals for clients that totaled more than $50 million during my time with the company.

Did that mean there was no room left for me to grow? Of course not. There are opportunities to grow in everything we do, even the things we’re exceptional at. But, the work I did for the company was often not interesting to me or challenging in the way I like to be challenged. I let myself become complacent because I stopped actively engaging in the process of learning new things. Couple that with the overwhelm of having way too much responsibility for one person. It’s evident it wasn’t a recipe for long-term job satisfaction or success.

Growth is sometimes as easy as crossing an empty street and sometimes as difficult as Bosun’s Hill, and we get to do both (and everything in between) over and over again. Whatever you choose to do, it’s probably going to hurt a little as you get outside of your comfort zone. Most of us give up most of the time. However, there are those times when we have the fortitude to stick with it until we start to see results. Seeing results builds momentum until it feels a bit more like the first mile of a walk on flat ground than a slog up a mountainside.

Five weeks into running my own business with one of my best friends, I’m learning that a measure of discomfort isn’t something to be afraid of; it’s something to be viewed with a sense of gratitude because it often means you’re growing.

What’s your Bosun’s Hill? What aid station are you trying to reach? And most importantly, are you willing to take the first step, knowing it might be the hardest climb of your life?

Lace up your shoes. The aid station is waiting.

What Is Intellectual Honesty?

 

Photo by Jandira Sonnendeck on Unsplash

I could feel the sweat beading up along my hairline as I stood before Ms. Giles for my oral book report. It was my 7th grade English class. I had selected Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light for that quarter’s reading, but I hadn’t read it. I just couldn’t get into it. I had, however, skimmed enough of the book that I was sure I could fake my oral report.

Unfortunately, A Ring of Endless Light just happened to be Ms. Giles’s favorite book, so my oral report was an abject failure. What’s worse, she caught me in my attempt to lie my way through the oral report.

It’s funny how something that happened more than 30 years ago is still a defining moment in my life. Thinking back on the discomfort of that moment, even now, creates a small pit in my stomach. It helped me recognize that lying was definitely not for me.

Does that mean I’m the absolute paragon of truth-telling? Well, I do my best not to lie, and have been known to correct myself when I’ve intentionally (or otherwise) misled someone.

But, like I said, not perfect.

I’ll admit, when I first heard the term “intellectual honesty” I had to stop and think about what it really means.

An academic definition — one I quite like — is that intellectual honesty is the practice of being truthful and transparent in your thinking, admitting what you don’t know, acknowledging biases, and valuing truth over personal gain, ego, or convenience.

Here’s what intellectual honesty isn’t:

• Pretending to know things you don’t (like my younger self did).
• Cherry-picking evidence to fit your narrative.
• Ignoring facts that challenge your views.
• Misrepresenting information to manipulate others or bolster your own position.
• Letting emotions override reason when forming opinions or making decisions.

Everywhere we look, there are vibrant examples of what intellectual honesty isn’t. The world is noisy and people want to be seen and heard. It’s an innate human desire to feel important and valued.

I learned to love reading in Ms. Giles’s class. During that oral book report, fear was my primary motivator, not that I really wanted to lie to her or admit that I had been lazy about my reading. I was afraid of being judged for not finishing the book, for not being prepared, and, ironically, for failing. I’m sure I didn’t think about it these terms then, but fear made it easier to rationalize my behavior: I could just pretend to know the material.

And that’s what makes intellectual honesty so hard. We don’t want to look stupid or incompetent, we want to protect (even expand) our egos, and we’re naturally drawn to confirm our own biases. Intellectual honesty requires admitting things that might make us feel vulnerable. In my case, I would have to admit to Ms. Giles that I didn’t finish the book. I had a reputation as a good student and a reader to protect!

As I stood there fumbling through the report I wasn’t prepared for, caught by one of my favorite teachers, irony won the day. My fear of being judged led to the exact outcome I was trying to avoid — because intellectual dishonesty tends to unravel under scrutiny.

Intellectual honesty requires a moral compass because it’s based in integrity. It’s not just about admitting what you don’t know. It’s also about pursuing truth from a vantage point that values respect, humility, and accountability. Without that foundation, intellectual honesty doesn’t have much of a footing and generally falls apart under the pressures of ego and convenience.

When I tried to fake my book report, the discomfort wasn’t just in getting caught. I don’t recall my twelve year old self having a clear list of personal values, but lying, I knew, violated something I valued, even if I hadn’t defined the value. Retrospectively, I can see that intellectual honesty is as much about character as it is facts, maybe more.

Grounded in integrity, intellectual honesty builds trust, facilitates growth, and keeps us aligned with what matters. It’s not easy, but it’s always worth it.

Intellectual honesty isn’t about being perfect but it is about owning up when we don’t take the high road. That’s why it’s okay to admit when you don’t know something — even though we live in a world where it appears that everyone wants to be the “foremost expert” on something.

There’s a lot of growth to be found in intellectual honesty because it encourages seeking out evidence that challenges your views. When was the last time you set out to prove yourself wrong about something?

This article itself was an exercise in intellectual honesty. Before I started, I had only heard the term “intellectual honesty” one time. Intellectual honesty is about exploring what you don’t know with the goal of learning and sharing truth.

I remember admitting to Ms. Giles that I didn’t read A Ring of Endless Light. I’m pretty sure I even cried standing there next to her desk. Ms. Giles took pity on me and gave me a chance to go back and read the book and report to her a few weeks later.

I read the book from cover to cover with wrapt attention. I knew the story well the next time I gave my oral report to her. Despite my failed first attempt, I think she even gave me a decent grade the second time around.

The Quietness of the Truly Important

The snow outside our apartment was deep enough that I was concerned our little car wouldn’t be able to get out to take my wife to the hospital. She had just passed her due date for our first child. We both put on our winter gear and headed outside to shovel as much snow as we could; to make sure we had space enough to get a running start out of the driveway.

All the effort didn’t induce her labor. She was just really sore when our son was born four days later.

My wife was due on Christmas Day 2003. Until the whole shoveling incident, we’d taken it easy that holiday season. Sure, we’d gone to some obligatory family functions, but outside of that, there was no rushing around doing last minute shopping. That Christmas season was about our little family, particularly the “plus one” that was going to show up any moment.

Some people love the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping. As for me, I’ve been over it for a long time. Christmas, to me, is a time of reflection and spending time with the people we love. Big-box stores and e-tailers alike have made the season about going into debt to buy things for people they probably don’t want, much less need.

The question for me is why do we feel the need to pack every moment with activity during a time that should be about family and grateful reflection?

The holiday season seems to crash down on us in a flurry of activity and noise earlier with each passing year. Parking lots are filled with cars driven by impatient drivers. Inside the stores, loud holiday music competes with announcements about sales and the din of countless conversations. Online isn’t any quieter — ads for last-minute deals and “doorbuster discounts” flood every feed and inbox, practically screaming for attention.

Then there are the gatherings. Holiday gatherings hold the promise of connection but often devolve into a kind of chaotic blend of overlapping conversations and too many dirty dishes. Even joyful noise can be overwhelming when there’s no space for quiet. The season’s like an orchestra of activity, but instead of harmony, it feels like discord.

With all the noise and sensory overload, it’s easy to miss the subtle melodies of the season: peace, joy, stillness, connection, and love. These fleeting moments can be overshadowed by the cacophony of must-dos and must-haves. It’s ironic, I suppose, that the more we chase the “perfect holiday,” the less room we leave for the quiet moments that make the season what it is (or could be).

Leaning into the noise makes us risk losing the ability to hear the whispers of what matters most. I wonder what I might discover if I allowed myself to step back, embrace stillness, and really listen.

On the day our first son decided to make his entrance into the world, my wife’s labor was long and intense. When our baby finally arrived, he and my wife were exhausted. They both slept well that first night.

Moments like those don’t announce themselves. When I went home the night he was born, I had terrible dreams and a panic attack as I contemplated the gravity of being a young father. In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined the complete shift when I walked back into that hospital room and picked up my infant son for the first time.

I don’t think there can be a sweeter feeling than holding your firstborn in your arms for the first time. Time stood still and I somehow felt that all was right in the universe. It’s one of those core memories that hasn’t faded in the twenty-one years since it happened.

That morning, sitting in the quiet of the hospital room, I felt something profound. There was no noise, no rushing to be anywhere or do anything, no distractions — just me, my wife, and our newborn son, wrapped in a stillness that felt sacred. There was never a thought about parties we missed or gifts we didn’t buy. It was about life — remarkable life — love, and the beginning of something new.

Moments like those don’t usually demand attention the way the chaos of the holidays does. They whisper, politely asking us to slow down enough to notice. These are the moments that ground us, even while the world continues to buzz on around us.

Of course, I realize these moments are everywhere, not just during the holidays, but they pass unnoticed most of the time because we’re too busy chasing what we think we should be doing. The quietness of that first morning with my son taught me that the important things in life don’t clamor for our attention — they either wait patiently for us to recognize them or they pass us by.

The challenge, of course, is intentionally making space for these moments. That’s not easy in a culture that demands busyness and productivity, especially during the holidays. Choosing to step back and say no to the noise feels a bit like swimming up a waterfall. It might, however, be the most important holiday (or anytime) decision we make.

Imagine what the holidays — and life, in general — would be like if, instead of cramming our calendars with obligations and shopping carts with stuff, we filled our days with the people and moments that bring us joy and connection? It’s not about rejecting the holidays. It’s about reclaiming them for what they were meant to be.

What changes can you make to connect with what matters?

Maybe this is the season where you simplify your gift-giving efforts and settle on gifts that are non-material like a handwritten note, a favorite memory, or a simple act of service. Maybe it’s planning some small, more intentional gatherings with plenty of space for quality conversations.

For me, this will be a season of expressing more gratitude to the people in my life through service and time.

The world is full of noise and commotion. Let this holiday season be a chance to refocus on the people and the things that matter most. Remember, the holidays aren’t about the perfect gift or the perfect party or activities to fill all your time. They’re about connection, gratitude, and the joy of just being present.

The season will always have its noise and chaos, but that doesn’t mean that has to be the priority. Simplifying, slowing down, and listening creates room for the moments that don’t demand our time but deserve it most.

When you look back, it won’t be a perfectly wrapped gift or packed schedule that stands out. It’ll be the quite, sacred moments that become the core memories you carry for decades.

The quietness of what’s important is always there, waiting for you to notice. Will you hear it this season?

Now Is All You Have. What Will You Do With It?

 

Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

I sat across the room from my grandfather, my mom’s dad. Mom had only been gone a few years, and now that I had my own car I could visit her parents whenever I wanted.

Grandpa Joe served in the Navy aboard the USS Caravan minesweeper. Grandpa picked up smoking and drinking in the Navy, and there were times when he did swear like a sailor. I already knew which words were off-limits and never would have tried any of those words my grandpa said out on my friends.

Even after Grandpa Joe stopped smoking (inside anyway), the smell always lingered, but the smell never bothered me. After he passed, I could still detect the smell in the old furniture, but it was, to me, a beautiful reminder of the relationship I had with him.

After his service in the Navy, Grandpa Joe worked tirelessly for his family. When I was young and my mom was sick, it was Grandpa Joe’s hard work that often provided a little extra for our family. As a kid I never knew that, and my grandparents on both sides were never looking for credit or praise for what they did.

They were really the best kind of grandparents a kid could ask for. They’re all gone now, and today I miss them more than usual.

Back to Grandpa Joe’s living room. He’d just pulled out a book of neatly scribed logarithm tables that he’d created with nothing more than his keen mind and a slide rule.

His job at EIMCO Steel was to make sure the computer was doing its calculations correctly so he’d painstakingly created that book of logarithms to help him do just that.

Today, most of us don’t question a computer’s output, but his job was to ensure the room-sized mainframe computer was calculating things correctly.

I was studying Mechanical Engineering at the time, and he told me frequently that I always needed to know what the computer was doing to make sure it was accurate. He was an unwitting pioneer of the idea “garbage in, garbage out.”

People who lived their lives before technology was ubiquitous were better at being present. It was certainly a character trait all my grandparents had. When I talked to any of them, what I had to say was all that mattered in the moment, regardless of the subject matter.

That’s a gift every loving grandparent has: the ability to be absorbed by the lives of their grandchildren.

Looking back with perhaps a bit more mileage in my own life, it’s easier for me to see that the lessons weren’t about computers or calculations. They were about paying attention to details, to people, and to that moment. Grandpa Joe’s life, like my other grandparents, was and is an example of being present. When I was with them, they listened. I remember my dad’s dad, Grandpa Tom, asking me lots of questions about school even though I know the later years of my education were way over his head. That didn’t stop him from taking a keen interest in what was interesting to me.

That kind of personal focus seems rare now. Our days are pulled in so many different directions — notifications, obligations, scrolling, distractions — that we forget to stop and ask ourselves: what really deserves our attention? It’s not easy to pause long enough to answer that question let alone refocus our efforts on what matters most. So often, we’re caught in a tide that requires tremendous determination to escape.

As I’ve gotten older, those moments from years long ago have become increasingly important to me. I’ve started looking back and seeing the lessons they were teaching perhaps without even trying. Unintentional lessons often come from people who are just doing their best to help others navigate the frenzied pace of life today.

If now’s all we really have, what will we do with it? Do we continue to rush through life, always looking forward to the next thing, or will we slow down, pay attention, and make it count?

This Is Your Life. Stop Making Excuses.

 

Photo by name_ gravity on Unsplash

It was perhaps the twentieth time I’d put my running shoes on, unlocked the door, then decided against the run. Instead, I’d retreat into the dark of the early morning, sit on the floor, and watch TV, or do nothing. I was tired, I deserved a break, tomorrow would be different. Those were my standard excuses. Deep down, though, I knew I was doing more than just skipping out on a run. I was avoiding myself.

My behavior was a symptom of anxiety, exhaustion, and indecision. In the last year, I’ve excelled at all three of those things. What I haven’t excelled at is taking good care of myself or spending much time doing things for others. I was stuck in a pattern of excuses, and each one chipped away at who I wanted to be.

A few weeks ago, I listened to a gut-wrenching podcast. The guest was a business founder whose life had been upended when his wife died of colon cancer before she was thirty. He was left raising two small children alone. Later, he remarried a woman with three children who had endured her own unimaginable tragedy — she lost all the men in her family, except her youngest brother-in-law, in a plane crash.

Hearing their stories, I felt a mix of amazement and discomfort. These were people who had every reason to retreat into themselves, to let grief consume them. But instead, they used their pain as fuel. For this man — who isn’t even forty — those experiences reshaped his entire perspective. He talked about carrying the burden of loss daily but also about how those same tragedies gave him the capacity to help others through their own struggles.

I couldn’t help but compare their resilience to my own excuses. Sure, my struggles are valid — anxiety, exhaustion, and indecision are real challenges. But compared to their losses, my reasons for staying stuck felt small. And yet, their stories didn’t just humble me; they inspired me.

What struck me most about their stories was the choice they made. Our tragedies do define us, but we get to choose how. Instead of being consumed by their pain, they turned it outward, using it to build others up.

What we can do with how we’re shaped by our experiences is one of the defining characteristics of humanity. Life shapes us all in different ways, and how we respond is everything. Some people retreat, insulating themselves from further pain or reliving the pain over and over. Others rise, turning their scars into strength, not just for themselves but for others.

Here’s the thing: you don’t have to wait for tragedy to make that choice. Every day, we face moments where we can choose to stay stuck or move forward. The question is, what are we doing with those moments?

Excuses and justifications are comfortable. At least, that’s what we often tell ourselves. It’s true they shield us from discomfort and the unknown. They let us stay where we are, even if we’re unhappy. But excuses also keep us stuck.

I used my favorite excuses not to run (or otherwise take care of myself), but those excuses weren’t the real reason. Deep down, it was driven by fear that it would be hard, that I would fail, because I would have to face the reality of how far I’d let myself slide.

We all have our own version of this. Maybe it’s not a run but a conversation you’ve been avoiding, a project you’ve been putting off, or a dream you’ve let gather dust. Whatever it is, those excuses are robbing you of something more.

How do we stop making excuses?

It starts with acknowledging one simple truth: this is your life.

No one else is going to live it for you.

It’s been hard for me to acknowledge that. For years, I’ve loved blaming my employers for the problems in my life. Other people can make our lives harder or easier but it’s my life. I can choose to live it on my terms.

The next action is picking one thing you’ve been avoiding and taking one step toward it. Not tomorrow, not next week — today. Lace up your shoes, make the call, say no to something, write the first sentence. Don’t aim for perfection; aim for progress, even if it looks and feels insignificant.

Then, reframe your mindset about failure. There’s a lesson in every misstep, not a verdict. The people from the podcast didn’t wake up one day ready to conquer the world after their loss. They put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over again.

Finally, embrace discomfort. Growth doesn’t happen in the comfort zone. If it’s scary or hard, it’s probably worth doing.

The couple from the podcast didn’t choose the tragedies that shaped them, but they did choose what to do with them. They turned their pain into purpose, building a life that honors the people they’ve lost and lifts others in the process. That’s powerful!

I’ve faced my own unimaginable loss, and I’ve made excuses long enough. Recently, I’ve retreated into myself instead of stepping into the life I want. And I’m done with that.

This is your life. There aren’t any do-overs or second chances. There’s no reason to wait for some kind of wake-up call or perfect moment that’s never going to come. Start now.

What’s the one excuse you’ll stop making today?