Leaning in the Quiet of Discomfort

What happens when we stop running from it?

“The best way to measure comfort is via the absence of discomfort”

That’s what a smarter and more competent colleague told me when I asked a seemingly simple question: how do you define—and even quantify—comfort? At the time, we were deep in a conversation about running footwear, dissecting consumer perception, fit, and overall feeling.
But his response stuck with me, drifting me far beyond the universe of shoes and garments.

Because if the absence of discomfort defines comfort, what does discomfort define?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that discomfort is less an antagonist and more a guide. It’s a constant undercurrent in life, shaping our relationships, choices, and even our ability to connect. Discomfort shows up in the awkward pauses of first dates, the gut punch of failure, the quiet tension of silence—and, if you’re into that, in the uncomfortable laughter certain comedians can provoke.

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Discomfort and Connection: The Edge of Humor

Take those “edgy” comedians like Louis C.K., Ricky Gervais, or many others. They thrive on discomfort—not just their own, but yours too. When they joke about the absurdities and perhaps the uncommon of life, they aren’t pulling punches to make you feel safe. Instead, they’re walking right into the taboo, the unspoken, and the cringeworthy, forcing you to confront it head-on.

Louis C.K. has a particular way of tapping into this dynamic. In his GQ Cover Story interview back in 2014, he talked about the value of “letting yourself feel bad” as a way of processing emotions. “Sadness is poetic,” he said in another interview with Conan O'Brien. “You’re lucky to live sad moments. And then you let yourself have, like, five minutes of feeling badly, and you’ll be amazed at how much better you feel after that. You’ll feel stronger.”

This sentiment mirrors what comedy does with discomfort: it doesn’t shy away from it; it leans in. By making us laugh at the painful or awkward truths of life, comedy creates a kind of emotional clarity. It leads us to process, but also to connect — about finding a shared recognition in the things we’d rather not admit.

Discomfort in comedy works like a release valve. It builds tension, poking at the edges of your comfort zone, before cracking it wide open with laughter. In my perspective, that release is a moment of shared humanity. “You have to know the edge of what’s acceptable… It’s always the things that make you go, ‘Oh, God, I can’t believe I just heard that.’” That edge—where discomfort and connection collide—is where comedy thrives.

And maybe that’s why we find ourselves drawn to the comedians who make us squirm. They use discomfort to cut through the noise, bypassing the conventions we put up in daily life. They remind us that beneath the curated exteriors, we’re all grappling with the same messy, human truths. Discomfort isn’t the enemy—it’s a great equalizer.

"Sadness is poetic..." - Louis CK

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The Quiet Side of Discomfort: Valuing Silence

But discomfort doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers. And nowhere is this more evident than in silence. Silence is the ultimate discomfort—just think about the awkward pause in a conversation, the uneasy stillness after a difficult question, or the tension of sitting quietly with your own thoughts.

Blaise Pascal wrote in Pensées: “All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” As extreme as it sounds, I believe he wasn’t entirely exaggerating—he was pinpointing a fundamental truth. Silence is unsettling because it strips away the distractions we cling to, forcing us to confront what’s real. It asks questions we’d rather avoid: who are you when no one else is watching? What’s left when the noise fades?

In Japanese culture, the discomfort of silence is not only acknowledged but embraced through the concept of ma.

Ma refers to the spaces between—between sounds, between actions, between words. It’s the pause between breaths in conversation, the silence between notes in music, the stillness that gives meaning to movement. Yet Ma isn’t interpreted as empty. It’s where possibilities reside. It’s a reminder that silence is not a void but a canvas, waiting for what matters to emerge.

The uncomfortable beauty of silence is that it’s a mirror. It reflects the things we often avoid: our doubts, our insecurities, our truths. But when we lean into it—when we stop filling every quiet moment with noise—it can become something transformative.

Silence is also where connection can deepen. The pauses in a meaningful conversation, those moments where no words are spoken, yet everything is understood. Those pauses, uncomfortable as they may be, often times carry more weight than anything we could say. They’re where empathy lives, where understanding begins, where the essence of connection is most profoundly felt.

I'm thinking that maybe that’s the lesson discomfort in silence has to offer: it’s there to challenge us. Silence, like discomfort, asks us to pay attention—to ourselves, to others, and to the spaces in between.

I like this image of a Japanese rock garden - can be a representation of "ma" through the balance between emptiness and placement, it creates a sense of pause and contemplation, with the empty spaces becoming as meaningful as the rocks themselves.

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The Art of Discomfort: How do you Feel?

Discomfort has a strange reputation. It’s a sensation we avoid instinctively, like hearing your own voice on a recording. But what if discomfort isn’t something to escape, but to navigate? Look closely, and you’ll find it lurking in the moments that define us—perhaps at the edge of a decision that terrifies us. In moments we grow. Where discomfort strips us of pretence.

When I found myself thinking about another interesting dimension of discomfort, I started wondering... what about Art? What role does discomfort play in representing a scene, in conveying emotions through a painting?

Think of Edvard Munch’s The Scream—a haunting depiction of raw emotion. The figure, isolated against a swirling, chaotic background, is not simply screaming—it’s reacting to the overwhelming tension of existence itself. It's said to symbolize the anxiety of human condition. How does that make you feel?

I like to believe that the key to understanding this painting isn’t the figure’s distress, but its presence. It doesn’t run from the chaos; it stands in it, holding the tension between fear and acceptance. The painting’s power lies in its willingness to embody discomfort, to let the unease exist without resolution. It’s unsettling, but it’s also a reflection of the human experience: the moments when discomfort refuses to be ignored and demands that we pay attention.

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What I'm trying to get to is that, in life, discomfort isn’t a punishment. It’s a signal. It tells you that you’re on the edge of something real: growth, truth, or connection. The paradox, of course, is that we spend so much energy avoiding it. But the moments that stay with us—the ones that make us feel alive—are arguably the messy, raw, uneasy ones.

Discomfort works because it bypasses our defenses. It forces us to pay attention, to focus on what truly matters. It’s not pleasant, but it’s honest. And in that honesty lies its value.

So, what? … Maybe the goal is to recognize the purpose of discomfort.

The next time discomfort finds you—whether in a hard decision, a moment of silence, or a truth you’d rather avoid—lean in.

After all – once again - discomfort isn’t the enemy.

What does discomfort mean to you?
When has discomfort been an unlock for you to growth or connection?
What dimensions of discomfort should we explore next?