Beat Up at the Ice Park

With a swing, my axe bites into the ice, sending a mammoth chunk flying straight into my face—a gnarly counterpunch. I reflexively touch my nose, half-expecting a fracture. It's intact, but the metallic taste of blood tells a different tale. I spit crimson on the pristine white snow and notice the vivid contrast. Teeth? All accounted for, not even a wiggle. Lucky break this time.

My lip is cut, both inside and out. My knees and right elbow ache from slamming against the ice wall on my rappel. I’m only a quarter up the towering 100-foot route, crawling out of this frigid canyon with nowhere to stand but on the front points of my crampons dug precariously into the ice. Swelling and cuts will have to wait until I'm home; no distractions mid-climb. Stay composed, stay collected. I wipe the blood above my lip, silently grateful for skipping the morning shave, as the month-old beard now acts as a makeshift bandage. Coming to Ouray wasn't just about ice climbing; it was about embracing pain—the growing pains.

The Comfort Trap

Most flock to comfort, lulled by the serenade of luxury into a somnolent state. Challenges are sidestepped, easy routes preferred. We become entombed by our primate preferences, succumbing to atrophy. In a universe of perpetual change, stagnation is a mirage. We either grow or decay, and opting for comfort inadvertently chooses the latter.

Choosing growth means choosing difficulty. To grow emotionally, we confront the darkest corners of our psyche. To grow physically, we tear muscles under heavy weights. To grow our character, we confront our fears.

The Mental Game

Embarking on anything new means looking foolish initially. At one point in time, Michael Jordan couldn't shoot, Hemingway couldn't write, and Einstein grappled with physics. Everyone starts from scratch.

Excuses flood our minds: "It's too late for me," "I could never do that," "It's too hard." If courage propels us past the starting line, initial mistakes and challenges amplify the excuses to quit. "I knew I'd be bad at this," "It's not for me," "I'm not that type of person." This toxic internal monologue plagues all, but the experts learn to overcome it, even relish it, turning it into motivation.

Puberty births an aversion to looking foolish. We dodge anything that might draw ridicule. Yet, while others judge, you practice, you commit to having fun in the process. You accept looking foolish today, tomorrow, and the day after. But someday soon, something shifts. You stuck with it. Now, you're good.

Now, you speak that foreign language, dance the tango, fly a plane.

Judgment transforms into admiration. "Wow, aren't they amazing?" they say. Not really. You just put in the work. You didn't yield to the comfort-seeker in your mind. You got hit by ice, spat blood, and kept climbing, day after day. Simple as that.

The Two Faces of Pain

The idea that we can avoid pain is a wicked illusion. Pain is inevitable; Buddha's first noble truth. But here's the catch—you can pick your pain. 

The pain you pick is acute. The pain chosen for you is chronic. Acute pain from a gym routine or chronic pain from a weak body? Pain from starting a business or from lifelong corporate servitude? Rejection or loneliness? Failure or regret? Growth or decay?

Embracing Pain as a Sign of Growth

For me, I pick my pain, and I choose the former. I've learned to love it, but not seek it. It's a byproduct of doing hard things, a sign I'm on the right track, that I'm growing. After all, "growing pleasures" don't exist.

I'll look like an idiot. I’ll smile like one too while I’m at it. A big grin with my blood-soaked teeth. Today, tomorrow, and the day after. And when the last day arrives, I'll still be grinning, savoring the memories of a life well-lived.

Reaching the top, my belayer asks me about my favorite climb that day. "This one. The one that kicked my ass," I reply. "I want to do it again." Lowered back into the depths, another round begins, incrementally better than the last.

Pick your pain or life will pick it for you.