The Comfort We Seek

When life hurts, what do you reach for first?

Before you answer, just notice what comes to mind.

As humans, we reach for what has brought us comfort in the past. Maybe it’s being praised for being smart or pretty. Maybe it’s working harder than anyone else, or always being helpful. Maybe you find comfort in scrolling your phone, shopping, eating, staying busy, finding the next relationship, or pouring a drink.

We aren’t reaching because something is wrong with us.

We’re reaching because, at some point in our lives, we discovered something that helped us feel a little safer, a little calmer, or a little less alone.

There is a reason we reach for what brings us comfort.

Looking back in my life, I can see where I have sought comfort.

One of my earliest memories is standing on the back porch of our home wearing a purple dress with a little yellow apron trimmed in white eyelet lace. I was probably four years old. My two older brothers were outside playing, and my mom, who had four young children, sent me to call them in for lunch.

I remember wiping my hands on that little apron the way I had watched my mother do so many times before. Then I yelled into the yard, “Boys! It’s time for lunch!”

I felt so grown-up.

I don’t remember many details from those early years, but I do remember always wanting to belong with the grown-ups. I loved helping. I loved feeling useful. Looking back now, I can see that even then I was seeking something every child longs for—to matter, to be seen.

Another memory has stayed with me all these years.

It was a Saturday morning. My dad was changing shirts, and I was standing next to his dresser talking to him. As he pulled a turtleneck over his head, I instinctively reached up and folded the collar down for him.

He smiled, thanked me, patted me on the head, and handed me a Certs mint from the roll sitting on his dresser.

It was such a small moment.

But I remember feeling so proud that I had noticed what someone needed before they asked.

That pattern stayed with me for many years.

I became very good at anticipating what other people needed and trying to provide it. Sometimes they wanted that help. Sometimes they didn’t. But underneath it all was the same desire—to connect, to belong, to be appreciated.

As I grew older, the things I reached for changed.

First it was relationships.

I was the girl my friends called “boy crazy.” Looking back now, I don’t think I was searching for boyfriends.

I was searching for something to hold onto.

I often felt untethered.

Later, alcohol became another form of comfort.

I can still remember drinking blackberry brandy in the woods with my friends in junior high. It burned going down, but almost immediately I felt relaxed.

I kept seeking that feeling for many years.

When I later poured a glass of wine at the end of the day, I wasn’t really looking for wine.

I was looking for relief.

I didn’t know I could go inside myself and calm myself down and bring myself comfort.

All I knew was that something inside me often felt tight, anxious, and never quite enough. Alcohol offered temporary relief from that feeling.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

Like so many forms of comfort we reach for, it solved one problem while quietly creating another.

Years later, after what I often describe as my awakening, I watched The Wisdom of Trauma featuring Gabor Maté.

Although I had a master’s degree in counseling psychology, his explanation of trauma changed the way I understood my own life.

Trauma is not simply what happened to us.

It’s what happened inside of us because of what happened.

Something inside us adapts.

We become more cautious.

We stop trusting.

We create strategies that help us survive.

For the first time, I could look back at my younger self with understanding instead of judgment.

There was a reason I had reached for comfort in various forms over the years.

There was nothing to blame.

Only something to understand.

That understanding changed everything.

Today, when life hurts, I do something entirely different.

I go inside.

I sit quietly.

I close my eyes.

I breathe.

I notice my body.

I notice my emotions.

I notice what is asking for my attention instead of trying to push it away.

Most of the time, I cry.

Sometimes I journal.

Sometimes I simply sit in silence.

Going inside has helped me develop a relationship with myself. Instead of trying to escape what I am feeling, I have learned to become curious about it and to meet it with loving awareness and compassionate curiosity.

Life continues to unfold.

There is always something deeper to reveal and something more to heal.

But I no longer believe I have to search outside myself for comfort.

Today, I don’t judge the younger versions of myself for what they reached for.

I understand them.

They were doing the best they knew.

I believe that’s true for all of us.

When we go inside, we find love.

Love has been there all along.

I remember I have always been loved.

I have always been love.

We are love.