Believing partners should lift us up and inspire us to progress, I decided to spend less time into doomscrolling, watching Instagram Reels and toxic reality television — my true passions — and more time into achieving personal growth. Following his lead, developing my own crush on Brené, I started listening to her podcast where she said, “Growth happens when you choose discomfort over avoidance.”

It was then I asked myself: when was the last time I was uncomfortable?

I like my job. I get along with my family. My routines are solid. I’ve built a life with almost no discomfort.

Does this mean I’ve stopped growing as a person?

This dangerous line of thinking that has led me to where I am now — preparing for a multi-day backpacking trip through southern Utah.

Instead of the usual New Year’s resolutions of exercising more, eating fewer treats, reading more books, I resolved to put myself in uncomfortable situations. Not the kind where I’m seated next to a pervert at a wedding or wearing a bikini at the pool with my kids, but the kind that pushes me physically and mentally. I’ve gone a little dormant since turning 40, conveniently forgetting that I can still do hard things.

While on my journey for discomfort, I don’t have to be miserable. I’m not a monk. I bought a lightweight backpack, soon to be weighted down with a sleeping bag, sleeping pad, dehydrated “meals” and a wag bag — the name of which is wildly misleading. I won’t go into detail except to say BLM should stand for “bowels movements not allowed”.

Alan, the man who fitted me for the pack at R.E.I, was thrilled to learn I was going on my first backpacking trip. His enthusiasm would have been more comforting had he not said, with unsettling sincerity, “You’re going to feel things you’ve never felt before.” It remains unclear whether that was encouragement or a warning.

Soon we’ll trek south for three nights of camping after three days of hiking in solitude, except for the fact my two teenage sons invited themselves along. I’m grateful, because nothing pairs better with personal growth than teenagers pointing out everything you’re doing wrong while being deeply embarrassed by your existence. My discomfort will be their entertainment.

Still, I’m excited for them to see me struggle as I attempt something new and persevere in the end, most likely looking like Grizzly Adams.

We’re lucky to live in a place where outdoor recreation is king, where people casually speed-run mountain peaks before dinner. Which makes it slightly embarrassing that this is my first backpacking trip and that I’m this nervous about it. But discomfort is relative. For some people, it’s summiting a peak. For me, it’s voluntarily carrying my entire life on my back into the wilderness.

Brown wrote, “Integrity is choosing courage over comfort; choosing what is right over what is fun, fast, or easy; and choosing to practice our values rather than simply professing them.”

In theory, backpacking sounded like a great idea, a real opportunity to practice the value I set out to live. It will push my boundaries of comfort. It’s something I can do with my husband. I like the outdoors in controlled, return-to-my-car-after-a-few-hours kind of way. My hope is that it will feel like a mini vacation from the absolute horror show that is our current political reality.

But as departure gets closer, and the reality sets in that everything I need to survive will be strapped to my back, some regrets are creeping in.

We did a practice hike up Malan’s Basin, another first I’m embarrassed to admit. It was exhilarating. I pushed through steep inclines, tried to keep pace with my husband and quietly resented the people who treated it like a casual evening stroll with the slight glisten of perspiration on their foreheads while mascara mixed with my sweat.

I made it. Round trip. Confidence restored.

Then I woke up the next morning walking like I’d pooped my pants and didn’t want it to touch me, a feeling that lasted for two full days.

It hit me: In hiking, the only option is forward. As I limped around the office hallways, I recognized in this discomfort I still got out of bed, I still went to work and I’m still planning on backpacking. I pushed myself and lived to tell the tale. More than that, I’m going forward with the next hard thing knowing I will feel it in the morning and I can’t just limp back to the car.

Because growth doesn’t happen when everything feels fine. It happens somewhere between mile 12 and “why did I agree to this,” when your legs hurt, your ego is gone and you’re too far in to quit.

And if that’s what it takes, I guess I’m ready. Even if it means carrying the wag bag I really, really hope I don’t have to use.