What We Do with Our Pain

I’ve been thinking a lot about what we do with our pain. God knows there is so much pain in us and among us right now. So much loss, hardship and heartache. Things feel so broken, whether it’s our political systems, our relationships, our bodies or our hearts. So many people with whom I’ve sat and listened over the past month have shared feelings of weightiness and weariness. If before we had somehow managed to deny or distract ourselves from pain -- others’ and our own, it feels like it is so front and center, that there is no getting away from it or around it.

It can feel overwhelming and exhausting. Like things are so broken, they cannot possibly be repaired. Like there is so much pain piled up, we cannot possibly heal. Whether it is in one singular human life or in our collective experience, how in the world do we heal layer upon layer of untended hurt?

Richard Rohr says, “If we do not transform our pain, we will transmit it.” And it feels like on the whole, we as Americans are not so adept at feeling, much less transforming, our pain. We would much rather engage in retail therapy, numb ourselves with medication or alcohol, online games or binge watching, or stay so insanely busy, we “haven’t got time for the pain” as the old song goes.

But it feels like our pain, or rather our inability to transform it, is killing us. Poisoning us on the inside. And then we are transmitting it all over the place, wounding others right and left.

I’ve been thinking about all this not just generally, but personally. Wondering about and witnessing what I do with my own pain. I came into the new year with more hopefulness, with strong intentions for how I wanted to be in my relationships, in my work, and in my practices of self-care and prayer. But by the end of January, I had hit a wall with the pile up of the pandemic, the insurrection, the political rancor, the winter weather, and parenting angst. I felt tired and depleted, lacking energy and motivation, patience and resiliency. I was struggling.

I used to hit those places and suffer in silence. I didn’t want to “burden others” with my problems. And in fact, compared to other people’s suffering, I would reason that my pain wasn’t worthy of attention. Other people were so much worse off. I should suck it up, be grateful. But secretly, I would hope someone could see through my façade and intuit that I needed some tenderness and care. In some instances, I would venture to share more vulnerably about a struggle or hurt, only to be met with awkward indifference or perhaps well-intentioned but often unhelpful advice. It turns out that many of us are not great with dealing with another person’s pain any better than our own. And that can leave us feeling even more hurt and lonely.

But here’s the beautiful thing. Throughout my life, I have been blessed with friends, mentors, and communities who know how to be with pain. People who know the power of just listening without changing the subject or shifting the attention back to themselves. Kind souls who know how to offer empathy, understanding and care, without trying to advise or fix me. And I have learned that sharing my hurt and struggles within those circles of care does indeed help transform the pain. I can’t say it magically evaporates. But there is something to bringing the pain out of the inner darkness into the light of another’s love and understanding that is healing. Joan Chittister writes, “It is not the wounding that kills; it is lack of understanding that paralyzes the soul. It is, after all, understanding that every soul on earth is seeking.”

Over the course of this hard year, I’ve been so grateful that every few days, I get to be in that kind of space. Whether it’s one-on-one or in a small group, whether we’re in person or on Zoom, whether I’m on the receiving or giving end, I have witnessed the healing power of showing up and sharing our truth--pain, struggles and all, and listening deeply and generously as others share their truth. I’m absolutely convinced it is one way we begin to heal all the pain, layer by layer, person by person, rather than letting it fester inside and/or explode onto others.

I’m curious, what do you do with your pain? Stuff it down or hide it away, try to numb or distract yourself? Try to reason it’s not that big a deal, not compared to others, not compared to the goodness in your life? Do you tell yourself you shouldn’t feel pain, not if you’re a believer? Or maybe that you deserve to feel pain because of unwise choices you’ve made or because you’re somehow fatally flawed?

May I suggest you try something different? Try finding someone who sees you as you really are-- flawed yes, but also fabulous and beloved. Someone who listens to your pain and struggles without flinching, without trying to fix you. Someone who holds space for your hurt, offers you grace and love, until with time and grace, you do heal. Chances are, you already know people who would gladly offer this; perhaps you’ve just never given them the gift of caring for you in this way.

And may we all also recognize our incredible power to be that healing presence for others. How many times do we struggle for the right words, or wish we could do more? But really, it’s our caring presence, our listening and just giving space, our empathy and understanding, our allowing our own heart to break for love of the other, that is most needed for healing.

This Lent, I pray we may acknowledge our brokenness. And I pray our hearts will not break apart into shards that wound, but may break open to one another and to the One who enters into our pain and transforms it.

Tenderly,

Kimberly