Many of us who want to improve go through the motions. We read the books, listen to the podcasts, watch the videos, try yoga, workout, take cold showers-all the "go-to" actions of self improvement.

I've always been active. Running, biking, and endurance activities have been a constant in my life since middle school. For the past year and a half, I've thrown myself into weightlifting seven days a week, often with a run to warm up. Coming from a competitive running background, I know what self-induced torture feels like. And yet, I've realized something surprising: there's a comfort in specific discomfort.

Working out is a convenient first step for self-improvement. It's tangible. In the weight room, you get glimpses of future progress-muscles inflamed after a workout, a fleeting pump in the mirror. It feels productive. But sometimes, it's just an easier discomfort to choose.

For years, I've called myself a writer. I've journaled ferociously, made half-hearted attempts at getting published, and scribbled countless meandering blog posts, but it was always easier-so much easier-to lace up my running shoes, head to the gym, and push myself through Bulgarian Split Squats until I felt like crying than to sit down and face the vulnerability, the focus, and the courage it takes to share my writing with the world.

Here's the thing: whatever you're trying to heal from, whatever you're working toward, the right discomfort might not be the one you've picked. It might be the thing you've always been drawn to but never fully embraced-the fire inside you that you've ignored for the simpler fires around you.

Choosing discomfort isn't wrong. But sometimes, it's worth asking: is this the easiest discomfort, or the one that will truly move me forward?