How to suffer well

...suffering is inevitable, no one is exempt

Author’s note: For maximum feels, tune into Landslide by Fleetwood Mac while reading this piece.

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned over the past year is this: suffering is inevitable. No one is exempt — not the cautious, not the kind-hearted, not even the lucky.

At some point, life will land a blow — unexpected or long-dreaded. A breakup, a betrayal, a loss, a failure, a diagnosis, or a stretch of emotional haze where everything aches and nothing makes sense. Sometimes, these trials come one after another, so relentlessly that you begin to question whether this is really your life. Why me? How do I make sure this never happens again?

The truth is, no matter what we do, we can’t shield ourselves entirely from pain. What we can do is learn how to endure it with grace. The real question, then, isn’t how to escape suffering — it’s how to suffer well.

what does it mean to suffer well?

No one teaches you how to suffer well.

We’re taught how to avoid pain — how to be smart, safe, cautious, productive, successful. But not how to endure heartbreak that comes like a slow burn. Not how to live through mornings where the ache is so quiet and constant that it feels like part of your breath. Not how to keep your soul intact when the story you were writing for your life collapses mid-sentence.

To suffer well is to let the pain in without letting it take over.

It means letting grief move through you, not rot inside you. It means crying without shame. Resting without guilt. Asking for help without apology. It means holding your own hand on days you feel unlovable and reminding yourself that you are not what you’ve lost.

It means refusing to become cruel just because the world was.

To suffer well is to stay tender in a world that wants you to be tough. It is a kind of rebellion — to keep believing in beauty, kindness, and renewal even when everything in you is tired. It is not weakness. It is survival with soul.

We can’t avoid suffering. But we can choose not to let it strip us of softness, faith, and meaning. That, I think, is the quiet art of becoming whole again.

strategies to suffer well and survive a hard season

step one: admit you’re in a hard season.

I went through such a season last year. After months of resisting the steady stream of blows life dealt me, I reached a point of spiritual and emotional surrender. I admitted I had no idea what was coming next. I hoped for something better, but I knew that all I could do was move through the pain and trust that it would eventually pass. And it did, as it always does.

Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is say to ourselves: “I’m in it. This is one of those hard chapters.” Not every season of life is meant to be productive, successful, or joyful. Some seasons are just for surviving, and that is valid.
This step is about being honest — with yourself and maybe with others — about the fact that you’re struggling. No denial. No pretending you're fine. Just simple, grounded truth. Because healing can’t begin if you’re still trying to fake your way through.

step two: get through the day

This surrender brings us to the next phase: once we accept that we are in the middle of a hard season and activate our emergency responses, we begin to examine why we’re here. Often, the resistance we feel is rooted in outdated ideals— hopes or goals that no longer align with who we’ve become. That’s why I recommend doing an ideals audit. Ask yourself: What am I holding onto? What values am I still chasing? Do they still make sense for the person I am now?

Hardship can be a powerful opportunity to re-evaluate. It asks us to listen closely: Is there something your body is begging you to release — a dream, a relationship, a self-image? If we’re already in the pit, why not leave the expired parts of our lives there? The climb back up is lighter without them.

When life falls apart, it’s not the time to “figure it all out.” It’s the time to shrink your world and focus on getting through just today. Sometimes, all you can do is eat something nourishing. Or take a shower. Or respond to one email. That’s enough.

This is where you create your emergency response plan:
What do you need to do to survive this week?
What can you delegate, drop, or delay?

You give yourself permission to lower the bar.
You replace “how do I fix my life” with “how do I make today slightly more manageable?”

step three: find micro-moments of safety

During the middle stages of a difficult time — when the collapse has happened, but the new hasn’t yet arrived — it becomes crucial to listen for what feels right. Even when you feel hopeless, lost, or numb, your body still speaks. What is it gently saying yes to? What is it quietly rejecting?

For me, during a hard winter, the only things that felt true were walking and writing. So I gave myself permission to do only that for one month. I walked for hours each day. I wrote for hours each day. The writing didn’t lead to anything publishable, but each word was a step toward healing. My body had known before my mind did that I needed space, movement, and reflection to process what I was going through.

Your body might not want walking or writing. It might want silence, sleep, swimming, baking, or gardening. Whatever it is, listen. Let it guide you. Follow even the smallest threads of aliveness. They are not distractions, they are doorways. They are the beginnings of your rebuilding.

When everything feels chaotic, find or create islands of calm. These don’t have to be big or life-changing. They can be:

• Drinking tea while watching rain fall.

• Lying in bed listening to a favourite playlist.

• Journaling a single page.

• Breathing deeply for 60 seconds.

Your nervous system needs reminders that you are still safe even when everything else feels unstable.

These micro-moments are the beginning of the climb back.

step four: examine how you got here

Once you’ve found a bit of steadiness, you can begin to ask yourself: How did I get here? What am I still clinging to that no longer belongs? Maybe you’re holding onto goals or relationships that have outlived their purpose. Maybe your body — in its quiet wisdom — is urging you to release something that’s weighing you down.

This is your invitation to pause and take stock. What dream, identity, or expectation has run its course? What are you still carrying that you no longer need? Let it go now — while you’re already in the darkness — so you don’t drag it into the light of what comes next.

step five: follow the subtle ‘yes’-es

In the middle of the mess, tune in. What is your body saying yes to — no matter how small? A walk? A book? Silence?

Follow those subtle yeses. For me, it was walking and writing. That was all I had energy for, so I gave myself permission to just do that. It helped me grieve, integrate, and heal. Your yeses might be different. But they are clues — leading you toward aliveness. They don’t have to make sense yet. Just follow them.

This is how a new life begins. Not with a dramatic rebirth, but with a subtle shift in direction. One “yes” at a time. One small risk, one small gesture of trust. Eventually, that path becomes long enough to give you the perspective you need to understand what this time was for.

step six: invest in yourself

When life has knocked everything down, you get a blank slate.
Ask: What do I want to rebuild? This is the perfect time to start investing in your future self — skills, routines, dreams you left on the shelf.

Brianna Wiest says, “Think of life like the stock market. We sell when it’s high. We invest when it’s low.” This is the moment to invest in neglected parts of ourselves — passions we abandoned, conversations we avoided, corners of life we never had the time to clean out. In the vacuum that pain leaves behind, we often find room to plant something new. Not immediately, and not with clarity — but eventually.

Even if it’s slow. Even if no one else sees it yet. Start now. With what you have. Where you are.

step seven: honour who you’re becoming

When things begin to shift, when the clouds part just a little, it’s time to reflect on what this season taught you.

You are not the same person who fell apart months ago.

You endured. You adapted. You listened to yourself. You showed up.

So don’t rush past that.
Honour it.

Who are you now?
What matters more — or less — than it did before?
What truths did you learn in the dark that you’ll carry into the light?

The pain didn’t disappear, but it shaped you.
You’re still standing. Maybe quieter, maybe softer. But stronger too.

That counts. That’s growth.

final thoughts

Hardship is not something we can always reframe or find immediate meaning in. There are moments when all we can do is offer ourselves care, compassion, and grace. When the ground beneath us is shifting, when nothing makes sense, the only thing we can control is how we choose to endure. Sometimes, survival is enough. And with time, the experiences that felt chaotic and senseless begin to cohere in hindsight. But in the thick of it, our task is simply to keep going.

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P.S.
If you’re here in the thick of it know this: you’re not doing it wrong. Pain isn’t proof that you’ve failed. It’s proof that you’re alive, that you’ve loved, that you’ve risked something real.

Take your time. Heal on your own terms. And when you’re ready, not a moment before, begin again: a little lighter, a little clearer, and far more tender than before.

You don’t have to rush toward the light. Sometimes, the dark is where the real becoming happens.

Love, Anna 💕