There’s a kind of pain that’s good for you. It’s the kind that means you’re growing. Like working out after a long break—your body feels weak and tired, but it’s being challenged in ways it isn’t used to. It’s painful because it’s pushing you outside your comfort zone. That pain produces perseverance, builds endurance, and ultimately yields strength.
Then, there’s another kind.
This second kind isn’t something to push past or endure. Its purpose is different—it’s trying to communicate with you. It tells you when you’re in danger, when something’s wrong, when you need to course-correct. It’s the pain you felt when you touched a hot stove as a kid, and your body screamed MOVE. Or the quieter, slower discomfort you feel in a relationship that isn’t healthy. This pain exists to keep you safe.
And, if you’re like me, it can be really hard to tell the difference between the two.
The brand of American evangelicalism I grew up in taught us (essentially) that all pain was God making us stronger. The whole “God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers” vibe. If something was hard or confusing or uncomfortable, it was for God’s glory. Pain meant you were doing Christianity right.
The problem with this, is that it taught me to treat suffering like a virtue and pain like a badge of honor. It made martyrdom an idol, and made my god being the “suffering servant.” Instead of learning the heart behind “give your cloak also,” I absorbed the message that everyone was entitled to my time, energy, and care—and if I gave it anything less than happily, I was selfish and weak. Instead of learning to actually trust God, I was conditioned to fear my questions and doubts—and the pain of not fully believing, was proof of my lack of faithfulness.
By my early twenties, I was in pain constantly—and I had no idea what it meant. I didn’t know how to set boundaries, how to protect my mental health, or how to know if I was even on the right path. All I knew was that if I was suffering, if I was sacrificing for the people around me, God would be proud.
The weight of that pressure was physical. Brain fog. Chronic exhaustion. I could feel the tips of my fingers throbbing. I was on the verge of tears at any given moment.
And that lasted for years.
Still, I told myself: pain is good, right? I remembered that Jesus said, “Pick up your cross and follow me.” I remembered: God doesn’t care if you’re happy—He cares if you’re obedient. I knew the Christian life wasn’t going to be easy; if Paul could sing in prison, surely I could bear the buildup of silence, submission, and self-denial. After all, I genuinely believed it was making me stronger.
But eventually, I looked around and noticed my metaphorical muscles weren’t growing. Things weren’t getting easier, and I didn’t feel like I was getting wiser. And then, I started to wonder—maybe pain isn’t always good.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe: our pain—our bodies, our emotions, our gut feelings—doesn’t always know best. But neither do the external voices we’re taught to trust without question. I don’t know the problem with pain (like C.S. Lewis does), I don’t know to what degree (or why) God allows innocent people to suffer, I don’t understand the paradox between seemingly meaningless suffering and God’s divine plan… And I’m not going to pretend like I have the “right answer” to anything. But what I do know is this:
Pain is powerful. And whatever form it takes—heartbreak, a migraine, the ache of being misunderstood—it’s part of your story, it’s not your identity, and it’s telling you something.
For those of us who’ve been conditioned to ignore our pain—sometimes the actually courageous thing isn’t to keep going. Sometimes it’s not better to shut our eyes, grit our teeth, and keep chugging along. Sometimes the harder thing isn’t “pick up your cross,” but “come to Me.” Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is stop, sit with the pain, let yourself feel it, listen to what it’s teaching you…
And let it go.
Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.
