Discomfort is a muscle.

I usually run 10k at weekends to stay fit.

Running all year round in London means embracing a 5-month winter and a lot of bad weather. Recently, it’s been hovering around freezing, windy and wet. So to keep things simple, I have a regular loop that takes me around a couple of London parks and back home.

Since I live at the top of a hill, my route always finishes with an uphill piece. Nothing huge but enough to feel pretty uncomfortable after almost 10 kilometres of running.

Midway through my route, there’s a section I come to where I can take the first corner. That means getting home quicker, but having to run the whole uphill section at the end.

Or I can take a later corner, which means doubling back on myself, which adds some distance. That means I get to finish my run a little bit before I get home and I’m walking the hill at the end.

I was coming to that first corner this weekend. It had been a long week. I was feeling tired and sluggish. It was very cold with gale-force winds and I wanted to be at home in the warm, eating porridge and drinking tea. I fancied a slightly easier run that morning.

As I came up to that corner I had a choice.

Earlier in my life, I would have looked for the easy option, avoiding that lung-busting hill section at the end. I could feel the temptation, the voice urging me to take the easier option with all sorts of self-justifications whispered around it.

‘It’s terrible weather. You deserve a break. You’ll do the proper route next time.’

I know these voices well. And so I took the first corner. I took the harder option. I embraced the unpleasantness.

Discomfort is a muscle.

I’ve become practiced at doing this over many years. It wasn’t always like this for me. There was a time when I would have taken the second corner or only ever run 5k.

There was also a time when I’m when I wouldn’t have been running at all. I would have been at home on the sofa having talked myself out of it.

What changed for me was a realisation that all great things, all enjoyable things come with effort and sacrifice. And then an even more powerful realisation that the effort and sacrifice becomes part of the enjoyment. It’s a self-reinforcing loop, knowing that you’re willingly committing yourself to challenge and taking pride in that.

Part of what changed my attitude was a desire for more outdoor adventure. This necessarily involves challenge and discomfort. As a 30-year old I climbed Kilimanjaro with my brother, a trip that involves some unavoidable hardship – altitude sickness, general exhaustion, bad food, sub-zero temperatures, illness.

On that trip, although I remember generally being in good spirits, there were low points too. I was struck by one couple in the group, Mike and Liz. Both 60-years old, they were avid hikers and relentlessly cheerful. Their energy around camp lifted the whole group.

Each evening, as we sat huddled in the food tent, wrapped in several layers of winter clothing, Mike would be strolling around camp in his shorts, whistling and chatting to people. It was no surprise that they reached the summit an hour ahead of everyone else, a reflection of not just their physical fitness but their mental fitness too.

That and many other cycling, snowboarding and hiking trips taught me that hardship is part of the journey. At first, it was about gritting my teeth to get to the payoff – the view from the top of a mountain or a long downhill run on my bike. And then over time, I came to embrace and love the most uncomfortable aspects of these trips – I craved it. That edge was where I found my greatest joy and satisfaction.

The former Marine Commando and adventurer Aldo Kane, is now a specialist in taking documentary crews to extreme parts of the world (including into active volcanoes). I heard him talk once about how a mindset of embracing discomfort is essential to his work. He’s the first one up every morning, he’s the last to go to bed and in between, he puts everyone else first including feeding himself last no matter how tired or hungry he is. It’s something he learned in the Marines which he summarises as “cheerfulness in the face of adversity.”

What I’ve noticed is that when you’re willing to feel discomfort in one thing, you’re willing to feel it in other parts of your life.

Discomfort is a muscle.

The big things we want to achieve can seem unreachable because they require so much discomfort and challenge to get there.

That’s the point.

If they were easy, everyone would do them. It’s the discomfort that creates scarcity – those willing to feel it and push through are the minority.

My unintended tutelage in discomfort through adventure continues to impact other parts of my life, enabling me to try or achieve things I wouldn’t have thought possible: starting businesses, writing a book, more and more challenging adventure trips, a consistent exercise regime.

Discomfort is not an inherent trait or a special talent, it’s a muscle. It’s a practice. It can be cultivated and strengthened over time.

I once read somewhere that being able to handle life’s minor discomforts is one of the essential skills we develop to move into full adulthood. Cold feet at the bus stop, a long queue for your coffee, taking out the rubbish – these are all tiny discomforts that are opportunities to become more resilient.

Discomfort is a muscle.

So we can start small, getting used to feeling mild discomfort, doing something tiny that makes you feel a little bit less comfortable. Write an extra 100 words, do an extra couple of reps at the gym, spend an extra 10 minutes in that conversation, spend a little longer on that document you’re working on.

As we build that muscle, those big things get easier and easier and closer and closer.

At the moment, as I juggle new projects, I spend a large part of each week doing things in a zone of discomfort. Going there regularly is a practice that I’m grateful I’ve spent years cultivating.

It’s in that discomfort where I realise that there’s no dragons to slay. There’s no tightrope I’m going to fall off. There’s no real danger. I’m just facing my own fears over and over.

After taking that first corner, taking the harder option, I got home knowing I hadn’t cheated on myself. Another small act of embracing discomfort.

Discomfort is a muscle.

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