Warning: This post contains advice. I have a Diploma in Counselling that I’ve been waiting years to get all high and mighty about. Therefore, I’m probably more qualified to give advice than most people who are doing it these days. So let me give it a crack, and at worst, you’ll find yourself up the side of a mountain in winter with shitty knickers. At best, you might just enjoy your time on Earth a little more. Rest assured, I will endeavour to entertain you with embarrassing and/or painful anecdotes and pepper the piece with creative swears, as per usual.
Six and a half years ago, I was curled up on the couch with my then-husband when he dropped the bombshell: we were splitting up. We’d just come back from only our second overseas trip together in twelve years. The jet lag hadn’t even worn off from Japan before I was knee-deep in planning our next adventure. There I was, buried in destination research, price lists, and itineraries, working myself into an excited frenzy as I’m wont to do. I waxed lyrical about the many wonders awaiting us on a 2000-kilometre bicycle ride down the Danube. He, meanwhile, sat there, quiet and less than enthusiastic. He didn’t want to go. To Europe. To anywhere, really.
Here was a man who found comfort in the status quo. Friday nights were for sofa-bound reruns. Weekends, a cycle of grocery shopping and bemoaning the speed at which Saturdays and Sundays flew by. Monday to Friday, a relentless grind of 10+ hour workdays, ad infinitum, until retirement. And then, likely more couch time. Or, you know, sexting women who weren’t his wife. To each his own. Motherfucker.
So, when he sat me down that fateful afternoon in early 2018 and suggested I buy a ticket to London before I ended up resenting him forever, I said yes. After many tears (on his part) and an hour-long hidden grin (on mine), he took himself for a walk to process. And I booked a ticket to Heathrow.
Since that day, I’ve been professionally running away from my problems, one new country, new city, new adventure at a time. I wasn’t always an expert at escaping my comfort zone. But in that moment, on that L-shaped lounge suite, I cracked the code. Or, as it turns out, had it cracked for me.
Before we get into the advice bit, I want you to take a moment to ask yourself: Why are you assuming that ‘getting out of your comfort zone’ is a good thing? (Don’t worry, it is, this isn’t a contrarian article designed to make you feel like a numpty for clicking.)
I want you to think hard about where and when (and by whom) that seed was planted.
Why did you click to read this post? Is it because you’ve subscribed to Itinerant Ink because you love my writing and you’d read a paper bag if I penned something on it? Love that, love you, never change.
But if it’s because the title piqued your interest, then you’re curious about change. Maybe you’re feeling a little stuck? A little bored? A little lost or in the dark about where your life’s going? Something else? (Please tell me in the comments.) Perhaps you’ve read a thousand essays like this and you’re hoping this, finally, is the inspo you need to get the fuck out of the cul-de-sac that is your life to go find a new one.
Regardless of the reason, let’s kick off with a disclaimer:
There’s no point leaving the safety of the couch to go play in traffic just because someone on the internet told you it’s time to get out of your comfort zone.
That would be insane. Much of what you read on the internet is insane. If you’ve survived this long, you’ve probably figured out how to tell the difference between what is OK on the internet, and what is nonsense. Or dangerous. Or constitutionally unjust.
Or maybe not — if you wear a MAGA hat unironically, or believe that the Earth is flat, now’s the time to quietly moonwalk out of the room, this is not the Substack for you. Don’t feel silly, how were you to know? Simon, my assistant, will validate your parking on the way out, so no harm no foul. OK?
Now that he’s gone, let’s continue, shall we?
First and foremost, ‘getting out of your comfort zone’ is zeitgeisty bullshit a lot of the time, spouted by internet wannabes and problematic human, Tony Robbins.
But the original theory is sound. As much as we’re programmed to resist change, we also stem from a millennia-long line of nomads, wanderers, hunters, gatherers, and runners from big beasties with large teeth. Getting out and about was crucial to our survival once upon a time, and as comfortable as you are in your three-bedroom suburban detached house with your 2.25 kids and double-car garage, the early human in you is probably crying out for a little adventure.
There are a couple of novel (read: not based on thousands of years of genetics and fleeing from sabre-toothed tigers) reasons for this that I think are pertinent.
The first is fairly well established: The midlife crisis (read about mine here). Brought about by shrinking social circles, fulfilment of major life milestones, and suddenly being aware that there are more years behind you than ahead of you. Cue: Existential panic and the idea that you’ve wasted your life. Now there’s precious little time left to do all the things you really wanted to do all along. FUCK!
The second is a more contemporary phenomenon: Internet-driven FOMO. Thanks to the advent of social media, we’re now constantly and unapologetically bombarded with the fabulous lives of other people on an unprecedented level. Think about it: a few decades ago, your folks picked up the newspaper every day and read about the world going slowly but surely to hell in a post-cold-war handbasket. This was more likely to provoke a gnawing desire to heavily fund the military-industrial complex than to inspire a family move to France. Not to mention, the closest thing to an influencer in the 1990s was your weird neighbour Meredith, who, since the death of her husband, had taken to competing in ultra-marathons and embarking on twice-yearly singles’ cruises around the South Pacific. Sure, the photos were nice, but singles’ cruises and marathons were reserved exclusively for eccentric aunts. No one was emulating those women.
Fast forward to 2024: Does anyone even read the newspapers anymore? Meanwhile, Meredith’s long since immigrated to Bali where she now runs a yoga retreat for the elderly and beautiful.
These days — iPhones having long since overtaken newspapers as our daily delivery of news from the outside world — every time we pick up our devices, we’re slapped around the eyeballs with skinny nutcases with unlikely tans and superhuman midriffs, live-laugh-loving it up in Malaga. Or the Seychelles. Or Antarctica, for chrissakes.
![Russian Photographer Captures Beautiful Elderly Couple To Show That Love Transcends Time | Bored Panda Russian Photographer Captures Beautiful Elderly Couple To Show That Love Transcends Time | Bored Panda](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4732f67d-f27f-4526-9bf6-af26f6a0e413_880x587.jpeg)
We’re now seeing influencers share their ten-thousand-dollar-a-month earnings online and selling courses teaching you how if you just spend this $499, you too could be living that life. Fitspo bros are fat-shaming you about your glutes. Travel creators are making you feel deathly boring. Digital nomads are MLM-ing their hearts out to convince you that life could be different with their help and your credit card.
And it works.
Because you want your life to be different.
But you’ve tried before. And failed.
You tried the Couch to 5K and gave up on the third day (don’t worry, me too). You took up the Keto diet with great fervour and became a zealot for cauliflower rice, for three whole weeks until you were ready to murder someone for a KitKat (don’t worry, me too). You even decided to start a blog, and wrote your heart out for a few weeks, before life got in the way and you decided you were less of a writer and more of an enthusiastic pipe dreamer with a keyboard.
Why the hell does every attempt fail? Why is this shit so hard? Who is the sadistic pillock responsible for creating the Couch to 5K fad and where can I find and unceremoniously disembowel them?
The Actual Answer is Simpler Than You Think
I recently spilled my guts about being a chicken-shit but never letting it hold me back. I've got solid credentials when it comes to craving a different kind of life and letting comfort (and fear) trip me up, and I’m more prone to FOMO than a three-legged dog at a fire hydrant sale.
Hell, I was devouring Sell Up, Pack Up & Take Off — a book meant for soon-to-be-retirees — in my early 30s, dreaming of retiring to Guatemala like it was my personal Eden.
In my tireless quest to live a life less ordinary, I co-founded a charity. I went back to university. I married a philanderer. I learned to ride a motorcycle. I amassed more Lululemon leggings than any woman could possibly need. Spoiler alert: none of it made me happier or more fulfilled. One of those adventures even gifted me with crippling PTSD. Mostly, they drained my time, my money, and my sanity, leaving behind a smoking pile of dreams that once shimmered with promise.
But a few years back, sitting on that newly-bought-and-almost-paid-for sofa, I stumbled upon the secret sauce to venturing beyond my comfort zone without it feeling like a root canal. Here’s the revelation:
Make damn sure the thing you’re abandoning your cozy cocoon for is something that truly excites you.
Like, duh, right?
But think about the last time you tried changing things up. Why were you doing it? Why on this green earth did you think that running 5km was something that would change your life for the better and not just result in plantar fasciitis and a visit to the chiropractor? Don’t you know that even runners hate running? Enough of that shit. You will no longer be FOMO-bullied into trying shit you’re not actually interested in. OK?
Don’t start a diet because you think losing weight will make you happier. The evidence suggests that’s a load of bollocks. You’ll be as miserable thinner as you were chonky. Perhaps more so, because hungry people are angry.
Don’t take up a new hobby just because you saw it on Instagram. Bread baking, for example, is infuriatingly difficult and you can buy that shit for a fraction of the price from actual bakers. Stop torturing yourself.
And don’t even get me started on education. If I had a dollar for every dipshit I’ve met who’d taken up a new Open University degree only to finish with a significantly lighter wallet and zero qualification to show for it, I’d be laughing all the way to a Bahamian tax-haven bank. (It’s me. I am dipshit.)
As I sat on that couch in 2018 and it dawned on me that my marriage was over and my life as I knew it was in ruins, my eyes fucking twinkled. I shit you not. I was charged with a sudden and undeniable JOYOUS ZEAL about what was to come. It took me less than 20 minutes to Google Flights my way to a ticket out of my stifling, aching, heartbreaking comfort zone and into the great unknown.
I’d spent the previous years trying to shoehorn a solution to my boredom and wanderlust into a life that was never meant to fit. As my marriage slowly decayed, I absolutely refused to switch off the life support and instead, let it limp slowly and painfully towards its demise. I figured, one day I’d find the answer that would make it all seem more worthwhile. A new hobby, a new job, a new car, a new fad. And then unexpectedly, that solution presented itself and I was finally ready.
Not because I’d instantly mustered the intestinal fortitude to throw up forks at my life and shimmy down the hallway, blazing inferno of a marriage behind me. But because finally, I was more excited about something than scared.
The trouble with getting out of your comfort zone is that so many of us attempt to do it for entirely the wrong reasons and with woefully underqualified grifters as our inspiration. What so few of us realise is this:
There’s no point leaving the comfort zone you’ve worked hard for unless it’s something you’re truly excited about.
The thing you’re really excited about won’t feel like a discomfort. It’ll feel like a dream come true.
This post risks becoming mind-numbingly long (and we all know what social media has done to our attention spans), so I’ll leave it here:
Don’t let the internet tell you to get out of your comfort zone. If you’re really so comfortable, stay there. When something comes along that is worth leaving that place for, you’ll know it. Then go get it.
Love your thoughts.
Warmly,
Maggie
You know what I love? A fresh take on a well-trodden path. You're like an anti-self-help self helper. While everyone is parroting "gEt oUt oF yOuR cOmFoRt zOnE" you've broken this down so bloody beautifully and it's given me a ton of food for thought on a few projects I've been mulling lately - and whether I was mulling them for the right reasons.
Love love love this.
This is great, a nice blend of "here's what happened to me and here's what I did" and some actionable advice. With so much information coming at us constantly, yes, it is vital to reset often and make sure you're pursuing the things that actually excite you!
I have a few questions:
Where was the picture at the top of the post taken?
Have you ever worked as a counselor?
I'd love to read a post on the learning to ride a motorcycle... maybe you already wrote that.
(I'd just like to note also that at this point in my Substack journey, it's a real treat to "know" everyone in the comments here, I'm not sure how SS does that, or maybe we are all waaaaayyyy too active here. probably both, ok happy wednesday. )