We Have the Strength to Move Through Pain and Uncertainty

“Suffering is not caused by pain but by resisting pain.” ~Unknown

Earlier this year our beloved puppy got sick. Not just a poorly tummy kind of sick, but proper, life-threatening, blood transfusion-requiring sick. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. She was at death’s door.

The vet was talking to us in quiet and kindly tones. Using words like “grave.”

Her illness was apparently unusual in a dog her age. Her prognosis was uncertain. She would require months of treatment that may or may not work. We were to watch her for signs of deterioration. Note changes in her appetite and energy levels.

And then it was our son’s turn. He didn’t get sick. But something in his physiology concerned the doctors. That meant he had to undergo surgery in order to rule out a cancer that the consultant told us would be extremely serious for him.

Like the puppy, we were asked to monitor his energy levels, his appetite, his sleep. We were advised to keep a close eye on him while the tests were completed. To report any changes.

Twice in quick succession, life threw us a curve ball. Twice, the otherwise hunky-dory life we had been enjoying became something altogether less comfortable.

We’d been happily plodding along in a bit of a smug bubble. We seemed to have it all going on. Not perfect—not by a long shot. But pretty darn good.

Bad things, it seemed, happened to other people. It’s just how it was…until we abruptly found ourselves living in a far more anxiety provoking reality—a reality that looked nothing like the shiny existence we’d been enjoying.

At times my anxiety was crippling. The uncertainty felt hideous. My desire to rush to the safety of certainty, and answers, was overwhelming. I was desperate to define what I was feeling, and what we were experiencing.

Online searches of both conditions were terrifying. Hopeless. My stomach would lurch as I read yet another firsthand account of a dog, or a boy, facing these illnesses.

There was no certainty. No answers. No comfort to be had. Answers, good or bad, would take time. I was in pain. I felt like I was falling. I felt an intense kind of shame at our overt imperfection as a family.

We were becoming other people. The other people who I had always had sympathy for, but apparently no empathy.

I had protected myself from their pain, and my fear, by subconsciously telling myself they were different somehow. I jealously looked on, as those around me appeared to be enjoying a carefree existence filled with a certainty that I was being denied.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. The dog recovered, against all the odds. Our boy was found to be cancer free. I am grateful beyond measure for both these outcomes.

But I am also profoundly grateful for what these experiences taught me.

They showed me that when adversity hits, there’s no value in running or hiding. While the drive to do this is so incredibly understandable, and our instinctive need to take flight to keep ourselves safe can feel overwhelming, it just doesn’t help.

I realized that despite my deepest held wish for all the hideousness to disappear, to be relieved from the pain I was in, there was no way around it.

When life throws you a curve ball, I realized that you have to feel the feelings. You have to sit with the deep discomfort of the uncertainty you face. You have to breathe through it, even when it feels like it may swamp you entirely.

It’s like sitting at the water’s edge and letting a big wave hit you. It’s like allowing yourself to be swept up, tossed around in the water and dumped mercilessly, sandy and undignified on the shore.

And here’s the thing that was the biggest revelation for me: All the while this is going on—when life appears to be showing you no mercy—you have it in you to give yourself the soothing comfort you so desperately crave.

You can sit in solidarity with yourself in your pain. You can rub your own back as you sit, head in your hands, despairing at the edge of the road.

You can encourage yourself to breathe in and out. Remind yourself that you’re not alone. That all humans know the pain of uncertainty and fear. That while your circumstances may be unique, your suffering is not.

Which ultimately gives you strength to look your pain in the eye. To sit with it, acknowledge it, and move through it.

My experience has left me changed—humbled, and a little bruised by having to recognize my utter vulnerability in the face of life’s randomness. But it’s also left me hopeful that when adversity does strike again (and I have no doubt that it will) I have it in me to see my way through the pain.

And so do you.

Photo by Martin Fisch

About Michaela Horan

Michaela Horan is a human being, a mother, a writer, a wife and aspiring coach. She shares her journey toward embracing her many imperfections at parentinginpublic.wordpress.com.

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