Choose Your Hard
The Uncomfortable Truth About Comfort Zones
It was just a few weeks after my 26th birthday and I was sitting on the edge of our bed in a room we rented from my father-in-law, watching my infant daughter play in her crib. We were waiting for my husband to come home so we could have dinner together. My father-in-law’s apartment was nestled in a dilapidated, semi-abandoned building in the South Bronx, infested with rats, water bugs, and all sorts of vermin. Our living situation was meant to be temporary—most of our storage boxes still unopened, each one holding fragments of our life that had been put on hold. But after nearly two years, my husband still couldn’t hold down a job, and my income as a receptionist barely covered the bills. He assured me that things would turn around for us soon. I wasn’t overly optimistic, but believed that as long as we were together, we could figure it out.
I heard the key turn, and my one-year-old lit up, bouncing like a little rabbit.
“Dada, Dada.”
He walked in, grabbed a duffel bag, and casually dropped a bombshell: he was leaving me for his 19-year-old mistress.
Shock paralyzed me. I tried to reason with him, desperately pleading for him to stay, pointing to our daughter. “We need you! Please don’t leave us here alone!”
I had been sheltered and naïve, having grown up in a strict Pentecostal church since I was 14. I married at 21 and became a mother just three years later. My husband, whom I met in church, was my entire world.
He nonchalantly tossed a few bills onto the dresser and walked out. I sat in stunned silence, tears cascading down my cheeks. My daughter, blissfully oblivious, offered me a toothless grin from her crib, clutching her favorite stuffed animal, Bobo.
The fear and sadness were indescribable.
Two weeks later, on a brisk Saturday morning in January 1988, I carefully secured my daughter in the backseat of my broken-down Chevette. The car was in such disrepair that the driver’s side floor was covered with a metal slab, to conceal a gaping hole that exposed the road below. Once she was comfortably settled, I crammed the trunk and the remaining space in the backseat with anything I could manage to fit.
After several agonizing attempts, I finally coaxed the car to life, but it barely made it to a mechanic's shop a few blocks away. Tearfully, I shared my story with one of the mechanics, who escorted us into a waiting area, offered us hot chocolate, and then left to take a look at my car.
I had $50 to my name.
An hour later, he returned. “I don’t know how long it will hold up, but I did the best I could.” I searched his face, waiting to hear the cost. “This one’s on me,” he said, with a wide smile. “No charge.”
Wait. What?
His unexpected kindness left me speechless. To this day, I refer to him as my "mechanic angel." That single act of generosity was the lifeline I desperately needed.
With no clear destination in mind, I found myself driving for what felt like hours, drifting down highways and local streets, until my car finally gave out on the BQE, spewing antifreeze that snaked like yellow goo along the highway.
A group of young men helped me push it off to a side street.
As I sat cradling my daughter in a dimly lit park nearby, doubt began to gnaw at the edges of my resolve.
Was I foolish for leaving?
Should I have stayed with the devil I know? Waited until I secured a better-paying job? Waited for my husband to come to his senses and come back home?
The sun dipped below the horizon as my daughter nibbled on the final bites of our last cheese sandwich.
An idea sparked in my mind.
I fished a quarter from my purse, walked to the payphone at the corner, and called my best friend from church. I asked her to see if her mom if she would let us stay with them until I found a place.
Her mom said yes.
Within two weeks, I signed a lease for a modest windowless basement apartment for my daughter and me. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. It was home.
Leaving was hard.
Staying also would have been hard.
Sometimes, you have to choose your hard.
Clinging to a toxic relationship out of fear of the unknown is a choice, but is it one that truly serves you?
Holding onto a friendship that drains your spirit, clinging to the hope of who someone could be rather than accepting who they are, only prolongs your suffering.
That job you dread, yet still go to day in and day out - all out of complacency and fear of not finding something better —well, that’s self-sabotage at its finest.
Choosing to walk away from comfort zones, to brave the unknown, often feels more daunting than staying put—but sometimes, you have to embrace the uncomfortable courage to choose the hard that serves your goals and your spirit.
There’s nothing enlightened about remaining shackled to a comfort zone out of fear. Living a life that doesn’t resonate with your true self is a tragedy, especially when you only get one life: no do-overs.
Yes, I could have stayed in that apartment and tried to mold it into the best “home” I could manage, hoping against hope that he would come back. That would have been a hard thing that minimized me, empowered him, and set a poor example for my young daughter. I had to choose the hard that honored us and gave us the fighting chance we deserved.
I remained in that basement apartment for a few years, built a thriving career, and eventually purchased my first home.
Life can be hard, no question about it. So if it’s going to be hard anyway, why not choose the hard that empowers you to discover what lies on the other side of your fear?
Which, for all you know, could be amazing, freeing, exciting, and empowering.