“I am comfortable with conflict.”
I’ve said this numerous times, and while it’s technically true, it’s also incomplete. It’s too finite of a statement to be infinitely true.
In reality:
“I am comfortable with conflict when I don’t know the person.”
“I am comfortable with conflict when the topic doesn’t feel close to my heart.”
In other words, I’m comfortable with conflict when it doesn’t really feel like conflict–when it doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
I know I’m being annoyingly philosophical right now, but that distinction feels extremely important.
Because so many times, when I find myself in conflict–the kind that touches love, identify, or belonging–I want to run. I spiral into deregulation and revert to unhealthy childhood habits. I lose access to the tools I know I have.
All because I am uncomfortable.
And logically, isn’t that the definition of conflict? Incompatibility shouldn’t feel comfortable. It’s not the nature of conflict. So why do I keep hoping that conflict will disappear?
Because part of my brain wants me to believe that growth eventually gets easier. That one day we’ll be done with the work because this shit is exhausting. But my body knows better. What gets easier isn’t the presence of conflict, it’s how I respond to conflict. And that only comes with sustained, intentional effort.
Even then, I won’t always see the payoff in real time. I’ll notice is later, if I’m paying attention enough to celebrate it, when time has played its role and we’re looking back through the rearview mirror together.
I used to close my eyes to shut out the person bringing up my pain. Literally. I’d be in public spaces, like a restaurant, crying, eyes closed, refusing to speak like a toddler. Retreating inward was a hiding mechanism because I was convinced the discomfort was their fault, and if I could just shut out the monster, I’d be safe. I would sit inside my cold little igloo, shivering, trying to stoke my own fire. Wanting to be entirely alone and fearing I would freeze to death by myself.
Through therapy, deepening friendships, self-help books, medicine journeys, journaling, painting, cuddling dogs, taking walks in nature, meditation–all the avenues I’ve consumed to build awareness, regulation, and forgiveness, I keep arriving at the same truth.
I cannot hide in the igloo. I must let people inside of my treehouse.
That means staying present instead of retreating. It means embracing disagreement without assuming intent. It means forgiving without requiring apology.
And this is where people-pleasing lives for me.
With my closest people, I want to be perfect. I don’t want to let them down. So when they offer feedback, even when I’ve directly asked for it and no matter how gently they deliver it, it doesn’t land as neutral data. There’s a tinge of fight that rises up, my sense of belonging feeling threatened. My nervous system doesn’t hear, “They love you and we’re collaborating.” It hears, “You are not enough.” And I feel defensive. My mind prepares for the fight I assume is coming, for the campaign I must launch to win the war.
Sigh.
I don’t know exactly where this comes from, and at this point, it doesn’t entirely matter since I can’t keep spending energy excavating a past I don’t fully remember or understand. Trust me, I could mentally masturbate on this, but I think I’d be missing the more important next step.
What matters more is how I change my behaviors now so that my future looks different.
That looks like learning to stop thinking of safe places as solely places of comfort. My closest people are my safe spaces (a privilege I don’t take lightly), and they are also my greatest zones of conflict. The duality that exists within our relationships is the work itself. The way these people can love me and challenge me, all in the same breath, are both required for growth.
The journey is continuous and never ending. It doesn’t resolve neatly. It is exhausting. It is insufferable.
And worth it.
Always worth it.
