Growing Pains: The Seduction of Suffering—and Why Some of Us Never Leave

Why do some of us stay in pain, even when we say we want to heal? This piece explores the addictive nature of suffering, the difference between the pain of healing and the pain of staying stuck, and what it means to finally release our attachment to struggle—especially when that struggle has become part of who we are.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about suffering—not just pain, but the kind that lingers long after the initial wound. The kind that becomes familiar. Almost ritualistic. Unnamed, but ever-present.

I’ve started taking on more private clients, and there’s one in particular I can’t stop thinking about. Let’s call him Daniel*.

Daniel comes to every session, sits down with intention, and pours out the same story. Week after week. A painful loop. He says he wants to change. He says he’s tired of suffering. But nothing ever changes. No integration. No shift. Just the ritual of retelling.

Daniel has chronic pain. He knows it’s trauma-related. He knows it lives in his body. He even says this out loud. But he never does the somatic work I assign. He sees me every few weeks, nods along, says he’s ready, then avoids every single suggestion. And it’s not just stubbornness—it’s a pattern. One he’s been repeating for decades. He grew up in an abusive household. Married someone who mirrored the dysfunction. Endured years in a violent marriage. Got divorced. Nearly lost everything. And now, in his early 50s, he’s still caught in the same emotional loop.

And if I’m being completely honest—I’m starting to lose patience.

At one point, I asked him, gently but directly:

“Are you sure you actually want to heal?”

He went completely silent. Not defensive—just… stunned. Like no one had ever asked him that before. And the truth is, I don’t think he’d ever asked himself that either. That silence told me everything.

I used to be confused by people like this. Why seek out healing just to resist it? Why spend money and time on a therapist or guide if you aren’t ready to make changes?

But now I understand: healing isn’t the same as wanting to feel better. Wanting help isn’t the same as being ready.

 Sometimes, people don’t want to heal.

They just want to be seen in their pain.

And truthfully?

I used to be that person too.

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I used to be addicted to my suffering

There was a time in my life when I wore pain like a badge of honor. I thought endurance was power. I thought withstanding pain made me strong. And maybe it did—for a while. Maybe it kept me alive.

But eventually, I had to admit: I wasn’t healing. I was self-flagellating.

Hurting myself over and over in slightly different ways—just to feel something familiar. I was perpetuating the same cycles of abandonment, self-sacrifice, and silent grief because that was the emotional rhythm I knew best. My nervous system was addicted to it. I mistook pain for presence.

So when I sit across from someone like Daniel, I don’t judge him.

I see myself in him.

But that’s where the danger lives—because I also have a history of trying to fix people who never asked to be fixed. And I’ve learned (over and over again) that I cannot save people from the pain they are still in love with.

I became a somatic healer not to fix people, but to witness them.

To hold space. To reflect. To show the way—not drag anyone toward it.

But I’ve forgotten that. I confused being of service with being responsible for someone else’s healing.

And that confusion nearly broke me.

But the moment I looked at Daniel, and realized he may not have the desire—and has made no actual effort—to change, something shifted in me. It was a hard realization. A painful one. But it was necessary.

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The illusion of control

I once dated a couple of men who told me—with pride—that they lied to their therapists. They found it entertaining. One even said it gave him a sense of power, and the ability to prove to himself he could “outsmart” his therapist. This horrified me and not surprisingly, they all had deep psychological wounds they refused to face. Both of them ended up resenting me for seeing through the act and trying way too hard to save them. 

They didn’t want healing.

They wanted control.

They wanted to appear healed, without ever surrendering to the truth.

Watching Daniel week after week has forced me to confront my own savior complex. Maybe I wanted to fix others because no one ever fixed me. Maybe I thought if I could just carry someone else through their darkness, it would make mine feel worth it.

 But it doesn’t work like that.

Because the truth is: Daniel has to carry himself. I can walk beside him. I can hold space. I can even light the way. But I can’t do the walking for him. And I can’t sacrifice my own nervous system trying to heal someone who hasn’t chosen to meet themselves yet.

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The seductive power of suffering

Suffering becomes a toxic lover.

One you know you should leave.

But you keep going back—because at least it’s predictable.

At least you know how to hold it and it, you.

We do it with unhealthy relationships.

We do it with trauma.

We do it with stories we’ve outgrown but don’t know how to live without.

We stay, not because it’s good,

but because it’s familiar.

And when suffering has been your shadow for decades, breaking up with it doesn’t feel like freedom—it feels like death. A death we cannot imagine grieving.

But there’s a difference between the pain of suffering and the pain of healing. One keeps you stuck. The other sets you free. And I think sometimes our brains confuse the two.

Because why choose the pain of growth

when the pain of suffering is what we know best?

And I think that’s why so many of us opt out.

There’s a strange comfort in repeating the same painful narrative. Neurologically, emotional pain activates many of the same brain pathways as physical pain—but here’s the twist: when those neural pathways are reinforced over time, the pain becomes not only familiar, but rewarding. Cortisol, adrenaline, even dopamine are involved. Talking about the pain gives a hit. So does the idea of being seen in it.

In that way, suffering can become performative—something we rehearse. A kind of emotional muscle memory. And healing? Healing starts to feel like betrayal. Betrayal of your grief, of your inner child, of the identity that was formed in the fire. Letting go of that version of yourself can feel like killing the only “you” that ever felt real.

So when people say they want to heal but never change, I no longer hear contradiction—I hear fear. I hear “Who am I without this pain?” And I don’t say that with judgment. I say it with the tired recognition of someone who spent years confusing growth with endurance. Who mistook suffering for strength.

I’ve often wondered if that’s part of the reason I kept getting tattooed. I used to self-harm. But when I found tattooing, it became a new ritual. One that still hurt, but felt purposeful. Like transformation. Like I was turning pain into something permanent. Beautiful. Chosen.

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The grief of letting go

Healing isn’t just about getting better.

It’s about grieving the person you were inside the pain.

It’s about letting go of the self that was built around survival, endurance, and despair.

That’s why some people never leave their suffering.

Because in letting go of it, they fear they’ll have nothing left.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

You don’t owe loyalty to what broke you.

And you don’t need to keep loving the thing that never loved you back.

“Growth equals change; change equals loss; loss equals pain—so inevitably, growth equals pain.”

—Samuel R. Chand

Pain isn’t a side effect of growth.

It is growth.

But not all pain is created equal.

The pain of healing is holy.

The pain of staying stuck is soul rot.

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There was a time when I was referred to as the cult girl—and maybe I still am. It makes me cringe every time I think about it. I didn’t share that part of my past for pity. I shared it because I thought it might help someone else. But the truth is, for a long time I wasn’t healing—I was just ruminating. I couldn’t stop asking: How could my mother allow such cruelty to happen to me and my siblings?

I lived in that question.

I lived in that pain.

And I confused storytelling with growth.

But I wasn’t moving forward.

I was circling.

And so is Daniel.

I see him now, and I know: he’s not just resisting healing.

He’s still trying to be understood.

But understanding is not the same as liberation.

I cannot force someone to choose transformation. I can’t rip the grief from their hands. I can’t out-love their resistance. There comes a point where holding space becomes enabling, and compassion without boundaries turns into quiet self-destruction.

Yes, I see myself in him. But I’ve already buried that version of me.

And I’m not willing to dig her back up just to prove to someone else that healing is possible.

🖤