Does Pain Make Life More Meaningful? How I Navigated The Shit Show Of 2021

I have been sitting on this post for several weeks. Partly because I am struggling to write anything cohesive at the moment, and partly because I can’t make this a “things I was grateful for in 2021” post with which to wrap up last year.

I don’t think even the most optimistic blogger could reframe 2021 as a great year. Months of lockdown, fears about catching COVID, distance from family and friends, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness have ensured that the past twelve months were a shit show for many of us.

Girl leaning against tree looking empowered, resilient

The Australian government did a reasonable job of tackling the pandemic, but who knows what the real, longterm cost will be to our mental health and the economy, and it is terrifying to think about how many other important policies have been sidetracked to save us from this virus.

Furthermore, I am mortified by their lacklustre approach to climate change, their ongoing lack of commitment to women’s issues, and the arrogance of our PM on the international stage.

But this isn’t a political blog and several personal challenges last year, that started with a serious health-scare in February, have been followed by a problematic transition into semi-retirement.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe I felt optimistic in January

Of course, we were in a different situation back then. Our family had just survived a lockdown Christmas and re-entered the world with the excitement of William Shatner on his descent back to earth, optimistic and eager to move onto the next phase of our lives.

I was so blinded by the excitement of what semi-retirement would bring me in terms of being able to prioritise my writing, I forgot that the finger of fate is always on the button and that it would take more than a fancy-pants new computer to fulfil my grandiose intentions of becoming the next Sally Rooney. And so, when the emotional ramifications of the pandemic dried up my creative juices like a harsh summer in the Northern Territory and I struggled to string words together or find any reason to do much of anything other than watch back-to-back episodes of New Amsterdam, the year started to unravel.

Was my lack of motivation caused by menopause or some greater force at work?

Maybe I was suffering from a case of minor PTSD related to COVID, or I simply underestimated the disparity between the expectations of retirement and the reality, but whatever the reason, my focus went out the window and I spent most of the year wandering aimlessly around the apartment, achieving very little.

The difficulties that some people experience during the transition into retirement are well-documented, but in my defence, what the brochures fail to mention is that you don’t suddenly land in some nirvana after your last day at work. You still have to balance the books, care for those in need, and worry about the unknowns, all under the shadow of a pesky virus that seems to morph into something even scarier each time it mutates. And that’s without all the overthinking that accompanies your approaching mortality.

Don’t get me wrong, I am inordinately grateful that I am still be here with a wealth of choices, but what has materialised so far will require some adaptation. For example: Having waited my whole adult life to implement a proper fitness routine, my body has conveniently decided to degenerate with the speed of light since the acquirement of my new gym membership.

Honestly, I’ve lost count of the number of conditions ending in itis I’ve had this year, none of which I’d heard of before

But my biggest bete noire has been my preponderance to overthink. “Existential crisis” doesn’t cover the number of Camus moments I’ve experienced in my quest to work out exactly what the fuck I’m doing here. I have days when I feel guilty about not being productive enough and days when I feel guilty about taking on too much and not making the most of this wonderful privilege of free time.

In all honesty, I have yet to work out an appropriate job descriptor for my new role, but what I have recognised is an underlying pressure to reinvent myself or redefine my purpose.

I would struggle to answer the question of what I do right now

When asked what I do, like most retirees, I bore pants off people about how busy I am. And, in fairness, I write a lot – but very little worth publishing; I read and file a lot of research; I try to stay fit within the allowances of my degenerating body, and I attempt to live vicariously through the lives of my children – albeit, they don’t seem as keen.

But what am I actually achieving? And do I need to achieve anything?

My single accomplishment from this year’s shit show has been my clearer understanding that LIFE IS HARD for everyone, an acknowledgement that has carried me through many difficult moments and highlighted the importance of resilience to me once again.

Fundamentally, I have always believed that resilience is the key to happiness, and yet in the past I struggled with the in-egalitarianism of it, i.e., why some people (seemingly) sail through life, whilst others are thwarted through no fault of their own.

When I think about it, I never quite understood the “pain makes you stronger” theory because I allowed the traumas of my childhood to define me. Unlike some, I struggled to harness my pain and magically transform it into a strength. Instead, I chose to wallow in it, allowing it to weaken and control me.

I chose to be a victim

Victimhood has served as the perfect excuse for my inadequacies, my fragility, my tendency towards mild depression, and my struggles with work and parenting. It makes sense that if your emotional battery has never been fully charged, you go flat much more quickly when faced with challenging life situations such as parenting, relationship disharmony and rejection, thereby increasing your predisposition to mood disorders. And as I discovered recently, difficult transitions like middle age – when there is more time to overthink the meaning of life – can be a trigger.

The struggles of people who have suffered trauma are valid – as proven by research into the longterm effects on their potential and mental health – but I’ve come to understand that being a victim is neither a healthy option nor a solution for my low moods.

So how to stop the pain?

For years, I masked my low-grade depression with self-medication. I still do, to a degree. I had to, because despite my awareness that no one leads a charmed life, my anxiety-induced perfectionism and hypersensitivity ensured that the knocks hit me harder.

But this year, I had time for an epiphany. Tired of wondering why the fuck I couldn’t enjoy what (by most standards) is a pretty good life, I spent the year experimenting with different strategies and medications (HRT as well as anti-depressants) in an attempt to change my outlook. I took the opportunity provided by COVID’s restrictions to rest, exercise harder, create boundaries in relationships that were becoming toxic, and to find a way to approach the rest of my life in a way that suits my brain.

I started to live by two maxims:

1) “Life is shit and then you die”. Because when you expect the worst, (which you do if you suffer from anxiety), things can only get better;

2) And “Tomorrow is another day”. Because time does indeed move relentlessly forward and dwelling for too long on the unfairness and the absurdities of life is clearly a waste.

To the optimist, I know those maxims must sound ridiculously defeatist, nevertheless, they work for me.

Which brings me back to the question of whether pain makes life more meaningful?

Maybe. I haven’t experienced life from the other side, so I suppose I will never know what might have been. What I will say categorically is that my pain has shaped me in many ways for the better. Although I’ve spent most of my life bemoaning the negative impact of my trauma, I do believe the knocks have made me a kinder, more compassionate person – if not a happier, stronger one.

The writer, Paul Bloom, an advocate of this theory, agrees. He says:

“Some degree of misery and suffering is essential to a rich and meaningful life.”

And I think he has a point. Maybe we do have to experience pain to understand why we are here. The gift of semi-retirement has given me the time to look at my life more closely, to separate the different elements and compartmentalise. All those cliched strategies for people with depression – walking in nature, fortifying relationships with family and friends, standing up for my rights, and being more self-compassionate – have helped me develop more resilience and autonomy.

Anxious people like me place an inordinate amount of pressure on ourselves to lead perfect lives and then, when we don’t succeed, we see ourselves as failures. But as Mofiyinfoluwa Okupe’s pointed out in her article on Medium, though many of us may have come through the past twelve months without any outstanding achievements, we must remember that some of us have “fought different, less glamorous battles…clawed through {our} own darkness and now {we’re} standing in the light.”

Every year brings a mix of highs and lows, and good stuff did happen to me this year: I caught a potentially life-threatening Melanoma in time, I watched my children continue to grow with pride, I discovered what I can only describe as the spirituality of swimming in cold water, and I fell more deeply in love with my husband. I have also been fortunate to live in a democracy that provides a wonderful healthcare system and (for the most part) promotes values I agree with.

And so, I will leave you with one final, simple quote which I hope inspires you as much as it did me, or at the very least helps you reframe your pain if it is holding you back.

“Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but you’ve actually been planted.” Gratitude Addict

Photo by Motoki Tonn on Unsplash.

One thought on “Does Pain Make Life More Meaningful? How I Navigated The Shit Show Of 2021

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