I just caught up in real life with a long-time good friend — Chris Tubbs, aka Iron Clydesdale. He’s not one of those “soft people don’t do hard things” hype bros on the internet. He walks the walk: Cancer survivor, Multi-time Ironman finisher, PhD in biochemistry, and knows how to suffer and also how to smile through it.
So we were talking business, the universe, the Cori cycle for lactate circulation, and how ATP works over post-run coffee, and he told me this cold plunge story that’s been stuck in my brain like a rock in a shoe ever since.
“So I’m in Dublin, Ireland for New Year’s. It’s winter, and I find this spot by the sea where people do regular polar plunges. I go in once… like a quick in and out. And I could’ve called it done. I mean, it counts, right?
But as I’m getting dressed, I’m like… nah. That wasn’t it. That was too easy. So I tell my wife and kid, ‘I’m going back in.’ They’re like, ‘You’re insane.’ But I had to.
The second time, I slowed it down. Breathing, feeling, and paying attention. I got the pins and needles, and I thought I was gonna die for a second. Then suddenly… calm. And somehow I got warm. I looked around and saw people just floating and laughing. My brain was screaming ‘danger,’ but my body was fine.
That’s when it clicked — I wasn’t in danger, but instead I was just uncomfortable. Huge difference.“
That last line hit me like a Street Figther 2 uppercut.
Here’s the thing, though: I’ve been simmering on this story for weeks now, and I keep landing on a question I don’t actually have the answer to: How comfortable should we get with being uncomfortable?
Because I used to think the answer was obvious. Push harder, embrace the suck, get comfortable being uncomfortable, soft people don’t do hard things, rah rah rah. All that good stuff we say to each other before a hard workout or a race.
But lately I’m not so sure.
I’ve spent years getting really good at suffering. Like, elite-pro-level good at it. Hard intervals? Lezzgoo! Early mornings in cold rain before the sun comes up? Yezzir. Fine. Intermittent fast 24 hours… why not?!
And somewhere along the way, discomfort became… comfortable. It became predictable. I would say, a bit safe, even. It’s a place I know how to operate.
So now the thing that makes me most uncomfortable isn’t the suffering itself. It’s the opposite. It’s rest days. It’s sitting still. It’s not knowing the answer. It’s asking for help. It’s admitting (out loud) I’m probably wrong about something I’ve believed for years. It’s saying “I don’t feel like it today” without spiraling into guilt.
And.. I might’ve just gotten comfortable with a different kind of uncomfortable. I just dressed it up in running shorts and called it being an adult and growing.
Which makes me wonder: Are we chasing discomfort because it’s actually helping us grow? Or are we chasing it because it’s become our hiding spot?
Here’s what I’ve been trying lately:
- Take a guilt-free rest day when I’m feeling good (not just when I’m injured or destroyed)
- Do a run where I leave my watch at home and have zero idea what pace I’m running
- Sit for 10 minutes after a run without immediately checking my phone, my splits, or planning the next workout
Try one, see what happens, and let me know which one makes you squirm the most.
I don’t know. And honestly, I’m not sure the answer is the same for everyone, or even the same for me on different days.
Maybe the real question isn’t about learning to be comfortable with discomfort. Maybe it’s about getting honest about which discomforts we’re running toward… and which ones we’re running from.
Something to think about on your next run. Or your next rest day. Whichever one makes you more uncomfortable.