The Comfort of Disruption

Sometimes, I think about the things we do to ourselves, the roads we choose to walk when every instinct tells us to stay put. It’s not always about grand, sweeping changes, mind you. It’s often the small, persistent nudges – a willingness to feel uncomfortable, to question what we’ve always believed. I saw it so clearly just last week, at a luncheon with some of the women from my former school. Such lovely ladies, all of them, and so deeply entrenched in their ways. And there I was, having just returned from Brooklyn, where I'd been spending my time helping Marcus's family.

Marcus’s daughter, bless her heart, has been struggling with a young family. Not struggling *badly,* mind you. Just…wearied. The kind of weariness that settles deep in the bones and makes the sunshine feel a little less bright. She's always been a fixer, always felt she had to carry the weight. So, it wasn’t a request, exactly, for me to come. It was more of a quiet understanding, a softening of her shoulders when I mentioned I was looking for something to do. And I knew, deep down, that going *to* them, rather than waiting for them to come *to* me, was exactly what was needed.

It's funny, isn't it, how we build these little boxes around ourselves – these comfortable, predictable routines. They give us a sense of order, of control. For years, I prided myself on knowing just what to expect. The school calendar, the grocery list, Jerry’s preference for chamomile tea with a single drop of honey. It’s a form of protection, I suppose, against the unknown. But what good is protection if it keeps us from truly living? It isn't that the known is bad, not at all. But there's a restlessness that settles in if we only ever stay within the familiar.

Jerry, as I mentioned, was surprised by how quickly I dove into volunteering at the Fulton Street food pantry. Thirty-eight years of marriage, he said, and he hadn't expected me to take to it so readily. He’s a practical man, my Jerry. He believes in hard work and sensible decisions. But sometimes, the most sensible decision is the one that stretches you a little, that makes you feel a little shaky. There's a quiet strength in shaking off the easy path.

I think we often mistake comfort for happiness. We cling to what feels safe, even if it's slowly suffocating us. It’s a difficult thing to admit, this longing for something more, even when we’re surrounded by everything we’ve ever wanted. It takes courage, a willingness to confront the possibility that what we thought we knew isn’t entirely true. It’s a little like pulling up a stubborn weed – the roots run deep, and they cling tight.

I’ve noticed this pattern throughout my life, not just in myself, but in those around me. The women at the luncheon, perfectly content in their established routines, yet subtly yearning for something more. My own children, navigating their lives, sometimes taking the easy path, sometimes bravely forging a new one. It's a constant tug-of-war, isn’t it? Between the desire for stability and the pull of the unknown.

My years of teaching gave me a certain perspective, I suppose. You see so many young people searching for their place in the world, testing boundaries, trying on different identities. They’re unconsciously trying to see if their assumptions about themselves and the world are accurate, looking for confirmation, or maybe even a chance to revise them. It's not that they're being deliberately defiant; they’re simply trying to understand who they are. And sometimes, that requires a little bit of discomfort, a little bit of disruption.

And perhaps, that’s what it truly comes down to: disruption. Not in a chaotic, destructive way, but in a way that shakes things up, that forces us to reconsider, to re-evaluate. It’s the kind of disruption that leads to growth, to healing, to a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us. And as I sit here, sipping my morning coffee, I think, well. Perhaps there’s still a little disruption left in me yet.