cringe + comfort
The other day, as I stepped out of the sanctuary of my home and into the world for a walk with our dog Mani, I had a moment where time kind of went still. I saw myself from a wider lens, a higher view, and that perspective placed a wide smile across my face—along with some internal giggles. I saw myself as free. I saw myself stepping into the rhythm of the external world without the need to present myself as anything other than me. I saw myself in all the comfort I have prioritized for this time: sweatpants, a sweatshirt, my hair in a big ol’ bun, and a visor to block the sun. I saw myself in the world, without a care for how anyone else might see me. And yet, as I celebrated my comfort in clothes and how I see myself, I also felt a cringe deep within.
I cringed as I remembered how much conflict I am aware of in the world. I cringed as I walked by houses with proud yard signs, broadcasting blind loyalty to a politics, persons, and power that likely wouldn’t even notice them, yet make contributing policy to benefit them, their comfort and well-being. I cringed as I felt a misalignment within me, like something is off. Something is changing. Parts of me are dying, and parts of me are just waiting to wake up and breathe.
With laughter and lightness, I told myself: if I had to describe myself right now—my style, as well as the shape I feel I am—it would be "cringe meets comfort." This feels like the only option I have to wear right now. The world is such a beautiful and breathtaking place, yet here we are, creations of it, and somehow so disconnected from the source and truth of us all. From the political warfare happening to genocidal denial and the disease of violence and vengeance in all its degrees, even the climate and weather patterns are creating realities that ask us to wake up to disaster and begin doing things differently, more Divinely. All in hopes that these patterns can break, and we as a species can begin to breathe.
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve been doing all I can to aid the cringe within me—the way my belly gets into knots, the way my energy depletes, the way my eyes look sad and tired even as my spirit encourages me to wake up, look, and see. I’ve been contemplating what exactly is moving through me, what exactly is changing within my very cells and soul. It feels like both hormones and humanity—or perhaps the insurgence of inhumanity at that. I am impacted by this world. And yet, I stand in all my exhausted light and power, remembering: the world is also impacted by me.
Every time I prioritize my comfort—through my wardrobe, through my routines, through my practices—I am resourcing strength within me so I can better stand my ground and experience grace, no matter what might be moving around me. Every time I let myself off the hook for not needing to spend hours on my outer appearance and instead tune into my inner self with the shields and shapes my own truth needs, I am demonstrating to anyone who sees me that it can be this way. We can discover comfort, even as the realities around us make us want to cringe, make us want to cry, make us want to scream.
The "cringe" I feel is not just about discomfort or awkwardness; it’s a signal. It’s an indicator of misalignment, a call for deeper attention to the dissonance between how things are and how they could be. And while I might cringe at the state of the world, I realize that it's in the tension between discomfort and comfort where transformation lies. So I let myself wear "cringe meets comfort" as both a state of being and a practice—trusting that in this space, I can still breathe. Maybe the world can too.
It’s a peculiar thing, this intersection of inner peace and outer chaos. Sometimes I wonder if they are meant to co-exist in some strange, cosmic balance. Perhaps, the more I align with my own truth and allow myself the freedom to just be—in sweatpants, in ease, in comfort—the more I am fortifying my resilience to hold the world’s chaos, to witness it without losing myself in it. Maybe it’s not just about blocking out the world, but about creating a deeper reserve within myself to stay present with it, without letting it consume me. There is something sacred in that.
I think about the times I've fought this—tried to perfect myself, tried to stay polished, tried to hold it all together when the world was fraying at the seams. But now I see that my comfort is not indulgent. It's revolutionary. It’s necessary. And perhaps, the more we all choose our own form of comfort—authentic, not performative—the more we create a ripple effect. The more we breathe in our own truth, the more space we make for others to breathe in theirs. Maybe that's the secret—our quiet, unspoken rebellion against a world that too often asks us to be anything but ourselves.
