If I didn’t open my eyes, my mind, ask questions, reconsider, weigh things, and learn, where would I be? Probably standing still. If no one ever challenged what I thought or believed, I might still be stuck in yesterday’s version of myself.
Growth rarely shows up wrapped in comfort. It doesn’t usually come with applause or ease. Instead, it often sneaks in through awkward conversations, blunt corrections, or those painful flashes of realization when you think, “Oh, I didn’t know as much as I thought I did.” Those are the moments that sting—and yet, they are also the moments that can move us forward.
And really, how could we improve without feedback? If I were to cook a meal and no one ever told me it was oversalted, undercooked, or missing something, how would I ever make that dish better the next time? If I presented myself offensively to a friend’s family and no one cared enough to correct me, how could I stand a chance at repairing that? If I made an error and no one pointed it out, wouldn’t I be doomed to keep repeating the same mistake again and again? Correction may feel uncomfortable, but perhaps it is also one of the clearest signs that growth is possible.
I’m writing this as much for myself as for anyone reading. Because I know the feeling of wanting to defend, to argue, to protect myself from criticism. But what if those moments of discomfort are actually invitations? What if, instead of shrinking back, we could lean in?
The Classroom
I think of a student turning in an essay, feeling proud of every sentence. A few days later, the paper comes back bleeding with red ink. The first thought? Why didn’t the teacher see how hard I worked?
At that moment, the student might see two paths. They could take the marks as proof the teacher doesn’t like them, that the teacher is biased or unfair. Every red line could feel like a wound.
Or—they might pause long enough to consider another story. Maybe those marks aren’t attacks at all. Maybe they are arrows pointing toward clarity, sharper words, stronger ideas. The red ink might not be meant to tear them down, but to map out a way forward.
If they choose that second story, something shifts. They begin to see correction as a tool, not an insult. And by the next essay, they may not only be a stronger writer—they could also be a little more resilient, a little more open, and a lot less afraid of red ink.
The Workplace
The same thing could happen outside the classroom. Picture someone starting a new job. They’re confident, maybe even excited, thinking, I know how to do this. And then, on the very first day, a colleague leans over and says, “Actually, that’s not how we do it here.”
Again—two paths. One reaction might be, They think I’m incompetent. They don’t respect me. They just don’t like me. If they believe that story, every suggestion could feel like an attack, and the walls may go up.
But if they take a breath, they might see something else. Maybe this colleague isn’t trying to humiliate them, but to save them time, prevent mistakes, and share the way the team has already learned works best.
Choosing to listen could mean learning a new skill, earning trust, and stepping more fully into the role. The difference, once again, might be in the story they tell themselves: insult, or instruction.
Parenthood
And then, there’s parenting. This may be where it feels the hardest. Because when it comes to our children, our instinct is to protect. When they’re upset, we want to swoop in, cuddle them, and make everything better. And of course, comfort and love matter. Our kids should always know they are safe in our arms.
But I wonder—do we sometimes rescue them too quickly? Could it be that in stepping in so fast to soothe, we don’t give them space to sit in the discomfort long enough to grow?
Maybe instead, we could try a different posture: simply sitting in it with them. Not fixing right away, not distracting, not rushing to erase the sting. Just being present, steady, while they feel what they feel. That presence might say, “This is hard, but you’re not alone. And you are strong enough to move through it.”
Imagine a child who fails a math test. The easy response is, “Don’t worry, you’re just not a math person.” That takes away the pain for now. But what if instead we sat with them in the disappointment and said, “I know this feels tough. Let’s look together at what went wrong and figure out how to improve next time.” It’s slower, less soothing in the moment, but maybe more fruitful in the long run.
Or think of siblings who fight. It’s tempting to separate them, calm them down, and restore peace quickly. But what if, instead, we stayed close while they wrestled with the discomfort of apologizing, forgiving, and rebuilding? It’s messy, it’s awkward, but those could be the very moments that grow their patience, empathy, and resilience.
Holding the Discomfort
Growth is rarely neat. It doesn’t come wrapped in applause or comfort. More often, it could show up in red ink, in blunt corrections at work, in parenting moments where we let our children sit in their struggles instead of rushing to rescue them. And sometimes, it shows up in parenting moments when we realize we haven’t been handling things the right way.
Those moments can sting deeply—when we see our impatience, our quick fixes, or our tendency to avoid hard conversations. But even there, we might have a choice: to let the sting of failure define us, or to let it invite us into doing things differently, becoming a better parent tomorrow than we were yesterday.
The easy path is always there: defend, distract, soothe, escape. But could the better path be to pause, to sit in the discomfort just a little longer, and ask, “What can I learn here?”
Because growth often hides in the very place we’d most like to avoid. And maybe, just maybe, the sting of criticism isn’t a threat—it could be a gift.
C.S. Lewis — “Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny.”
Socrates — “The unexamined life is not worth living.”