Field Note: Thresholds

Today the clouds finally broke.

After a week of rain, the blue sky returned.

Relief.

We had too much of a good thing.

The flowers were soggy and limp. Planters had to be turned on their sides to drain. Some plants stopped growing. Others, like the tomatoes, split from taking on more water than they could hold.

Too much rain.

Too little sun.

They had to endure.

Most of them did.

The cacti, however, had already been moved into the gazebo. I'd learned what happened last year. Too much humidity weakens them. This year, I may simply bring them inside altogether.

Being a gardener teaches you something.

Different plants tolerate different conditions.

Some thrive in hardship.

Some need shelter.

Some recover beautifully.

Others quietly cross a threshold they cannot return from.

This was one of the hardest things I had to learn about myself.

Our strengths and our ability to endure are not automatically virtues.

Every strength has a shadow.

I have a high tolerance for discomfort.

It helped me survive.

I tolerated neglect.

I tolerated instability.

I tolerated loneliness.

I tolerated uncertainty.

I tolerated pain.

When I imagine one of my own children living through what I accepted as normal, it gives me chills.

It was too much.

I survived.

But survival is not the same thing as flourishing.

My capacity carried me through years I might not have survived otherwise.

Growing up, I learned that hardship could make a person stronger.

There is truth in that.

Plants that are never challenged often develop shallow roots. Muscles strengthen under resistance. Confidence grows by doing difficult things.

But there is another truth.

Strength has a threshold.

Too much rain splits tomatoes.

Too much humidity rots roots.

Too much wind breaks branches.

The lesson was never that hardship is bad.

The lesson is that every living thing has limits.

For a long time, I confused endurance with health.

Survival skills don't always know when the emergency has ended.

The same tolerance that allowed me to endure childhood also allowed me to remain in relationships that had become consistently unhealthy. It kept me working in environments that were no longer worthy of me. It encouraged me to explain away pain instead of asking whether it deserved attention.

I ignored the thresholds.

A strength became a liability.

I don't want to lose my ability to tolerate discomfort.

Life requires it.

A difficult conversation.

A season of grief.

A week of hard work.

A sore body after a long hike.

The frustration of learning something new.

These are not emergencies.

They are simply part of living.

But I no longer believe endurance is the highest virtue.

Sometimes wisdom asks a different question.

Is this discomfort helping me grow, should I ask for help, or is it simply teaching me to remain where I should leave?

That question has changed my life.

When my body hurts, I don't immediately reach for medication.

I begin with stewardship.

Water.

Stretching.

Walking.

Rest.

Breathing.

Time.

Often, the body knows how to recover when I give it what it needs.

If the pain remains, I don't see medication as failure.

I see it as another tool.

The same is true in relationships.

Not every difficult moment means someone should leave.

Every friendship has misunderstandings.

Every marriage has tension.

Every workplace has frustrating days.

Some discomfort is the cost of intimacy and meaningful work.

But persistent disrespect is different.

Consistent contempt is different.

It ROBS YOU OF DIGNITY IN TIMES YOU NEEDED CARE.

A pattern that slowly erodes who you are is different.

Strength is not staying forever.

Strength is knowing the difference.

Today I no longer ask only,

"Can I endure this?"

I also ask,

"Should I?"

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is stay.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is walk away.

Stewardship requires both.

Lives and livelihoods shouldn't break us.

Parenting has taught me something else.

There are times you let your children struggle.

Struggle builds confidence.

It teaches problem solving.

It grows resilience.

But there are also moments when they shouldn't struggle alone.

You don't always solve the problem.

Sometimes you simply stand beside them while they face it.

Stewardship requires knowing the difference.

The same is true for adults.

None of us were meant to endure every hardship alone.

When we are injured and broken, we deserve care.

Perhaps maturity is not increasing our tolerance for discomfort.

Perhaps it is learning which discomfort belongs to life...

and which never belonged to us in the first place.

Namaste.