staying when it gets uncomfortable

There was a moment in the studio the other day where I almost walked away mid process. Not in a dramatic, throw-everything-across-the-room kind of way. Just in that quiet, familiar way where something gets hard… and you start looking for the exit.

I had felt pulled to work on a mixed media collage. And almost immediately, I could feel the resistance.

It was messier than the watercolors I had been playing with over the last few weeks. More materials. More decisions. More time. It required more of me. And I could feel this voice rise up that said, I don’t want to put this much effort into this.

I could have easily switched to something simpler. Something more comfortable. Something that would give me a quicker sense of satisfaction. And sometimes, a quick fix is perfectly fine but this sesh wasn’t that.

Something in me said… stay. Don’t quit because it’s harder or messier or takes too much effort. So I stayed. I didn’t abandon myself in the process.

That moment has been sitting with me ever since. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize how often we do this in our lives. We leave when things get uncomfortable. We check out when emotions start to rise. We distract ourselves when something feels too messy, too slow, too uncertain.

Not because we’re flawed. Not because we don’t care. But because somewhere along the way, we learned that discomfort is something to avoid. Something to fix. Something to move through as quickly as possible.

But what if staying is actually the process? What if the moment something feels uncomfortable, isn’t the signal to leave, but the invitation to stay? To stay with the emotion. To stay with the uncertainty. To stay with ourselves.

I’m not talking about forcing anything. Or pushing through in a way that feels harsh or rigid. I’m talking about a softer kind of staying. The kind where you sit with yourself and say, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s slow. Even when it’s not turning out the way you hoped. Even when you don’t care for the finished piece.

Because something shifts when we do that. There’s a quiet kind of trust that starts to build. Every time you don’t walk away, every time you don’t abandon what you’re feeling, there’s a message underneath it that says, I’ve got you.

You’re building trust. And that matters more than the outcome ever will.

I’m reminded that this isn’t really about art. It’s about learning how to be with myself in a way I maybe never was before. Not fixing. Not rushing. Not escaping. Just staying.

So maybe the question isn’t: How do I make this better? Maybe the question is: Can I stay?