Why we need to be uncomfortable.

We have conflated happiness and comfort. And in my thoroughly unscientific opinion, we have lost the connection to the reptilian brain that got us here as a species. We're all neocortex now, a jumble of stress and worry. So we reach for various pacifiers: sugar, sex, drugs, alcohol, social media, consumerism. I believe it's growth through discomfort that produces happiness, and by seeking comfort instead, the circuit gets broken.

I think of the most rewarding pursuits of my life, and I wanted to quit all of them in the beginning. I walked onto a football field not knowing what a down was, and proceeded to get body slammed by another, much larger boy. I learned the offensive line and the defensive backfield, mastering my small portion of the game, learning to push past physical pain inflicted by bigger opponents -- which was pretty much everybody. It became a joy to play.

Learning Latin was a lesson in constant failure that churned up a maelstrom of self-pity and doubt. My brain was tearing itself apart trying to stretch and wrap itself around the language. Only after I surrendered did it make sense, did its athleticism and poetry make itself understood. It became a joy to learn. 

And finally, there was Jiu Jitsu. There's meme of a drowning white belt making it's way around BJJ social media. He's trying to keep his head above water, clawing at the surface for survival. This -- the drowning of Jiu Jitsu -- was the hardest part to accept. It's difficult for a grown man to make himself so vulnerable, to admit to himself and to others that he couldn't save his own life from a somewhat skilled or a stronger opponent. You fail quickly and often in BJJ. There are two mental approaches you can take in the face of such failure: 1) Rationalize it away, saying to yourself that we live in a world where such a skill isn't necessary; 2) Push yourself harder than any opponent, real or imagined, can. I chose to push myself.

One day, I got my first submission. I don't remember the move. I don't remember the training partner. And I don't remember because those facts are inconsequential. I learned to take more joy in the hundreds of times I've tapped out, or been submitted, ever since. That is where the growth comes from, as well as the grin I can't wipe off my face. It became a joy to train.

This is growth. This is discomfort. This, my friends, is happiness. 

Fumble.

I played a lot of football as a kid. I played nearly every down possible between third and eighth grade. And then, when I got to high school, and everybody started to pack on muscle, I figured out the hard way that being a 125 pound lineman and linebacker wasn't going to work. Football broke my heart.

But up until then, football and its tough love were good to me. As a nerd, it introduced me to a different set of friends I otherwise wouldn't have had. It taught me to think analytically, looking for clues as to how a play would unfold. Most important, it taught me physical and mental toughness.

At this point, if I'm lucky enough to have kids, I wouldn't want them to play the game. The game has broken my heart a second time. I love football. I love it despite my torn-up shoulder, cleat-scarred shins and likely multiple concussions. The game is forever a part of me. I just don't think it should be a part of them.