Action is Everything
The thermometer read 19 degrees. The wind whipped louder than waves crashing on a beach. And I was zipped tight in a sleeping bag on top of a mountain.
Action carried me away from comfort, and it was the only thing that could bring me back.
I wanted nothing more than a hot breakfast by the campfire.
Scratch that.
I simply wanted to be warm.
Forget the food. Forget the fire. I wanted to feel my fingers and toes.
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How—you might be wondering—did I wake up on top of a mountain in freezing temperatures and howling winds? Like most of the trouble I find myself in, it began with a text from a friend.
“Hey if you guys are up for it, I was thinking we do this trail for mine and Joe’s 30th celebration.”
The message linked to the Art Loeb trail—a 30 mile trek through North Carolina’s Shining Rock Wilderness. Three guys hiking 30 miles to celebrate 30 years on the earth. It had a nice ring to it.
My response: “Hell yeah. I’m definitely in.”
The text took place months before the trip. I didn’t give much thought to the 35 pound pack I’d be carrying, or the 9,700 feet of elevation gain, or the fact that we’d be over 6,000 feet in the mountains in the month of March. I simply thought, “adventure? I’m in.”
—
Adventure. Discomfort. Testing the boundaries of your body and mind. I’ve always enjoyed seeing how far I could push myself, but I like it even more after reading The Comfort Crisis last year.
What I learned from Michael Easter’s excellent book is how our bodies are programmed to be pushed. We were made to struggle, to be uncomfortable, to do hard things beyond our perceived capabilities. When we do, our potential expands. The boundaries we thought existed before stretch out like an expanding empire.
And when we don’t? Our bodies and minds crumble. We lose the spark that tells us to stop making excuses and start making things happen.
It’s easy to creep into a chasm of comfort. I’m typing this on my big comfy couch, wearing my cozy sweatpants, sitting next to an empty bowl of ice cream. If I spent too much time in this state, I’d quickly become a pathetic excuse of a man.
I enjoy comfort as much as the next person, but I much prefer the confidence of knowing my body has few limits. I like knowing I can swim further than most people can run, I can carry more than most people can roll, I can endure more than most people can imagine.
You don’t earn this privilege on the couch in sweatpants. You earn it in an early morning gym session, you earn it on a moonlight run without any sleep, you earn it on a frigid night in the woods after hiking 12 grueling miles.
So that’s how I found myself on a cold, windy mountaintop with the sun creeping over the peaks on a frosty March morning.
—
When we found the campsite the night before, the wind was whipping and the temperature was dropping. We pitched our tents, ate our freeze dried meals in silence, and hunkered down for the night.
I knew it would be cold, but I was looking forward to a wind free morning with campfire coffee and my dehydrated breakfast of sausage and biscuits.
Twelve hours later, the wind was stronger, the temperature colder, and my dreams of breakfast were gone.
“You guys want to just pack up and go?” my friend called from his tent.
“Yeah, fuck breakfast” I shouted over the wind. “I can’t feel my feet.”
You know those chilly mornings when you want to stay snuggled under the blankets? The best feeling is staying put, soaking in the warmth, and pushing your obligations a few minutes further away.
That is not how I felt in my sleeping bag.
It would’ve been great to stay snuggled in a nice warm bag. The problem was, the bag wasn’t much warmer than the world outside it. Staying snuggled another hour didn’t mean holding the heat in.
It meant another hour of misery.
It meant a higher chance of fingers too frozen to break down a tent and toes too tingly to walk without pain.
At this moment, I knew comfort could only come from action. Staying put wasn’t an option. So my buddies and I broke camp like it was an Olympic event. In a matter of minutes we were packed, bundled, and heading toward the trail, hoping some steps would warm our blood enough to get it pumping again.
As expected, action was all we needed. We warmed up quickly and finished our hike with accomplishment surging through our veins—all a result of taking action.
—
Unfortunately, most of us, most of the time, don’t have a bias toward action. We don’t start a conversation with the cute stranger we’ve been admiring. We don’t ask for the raise we feel we’ve earned. We don’t move to the city we’ve been dreaming of since childhood. And we don’t do these things because not doing them is easier than acting.
That’s not to say the outcome will be better. It will almost always be worse. But the comfort of the discontented status quo is much less scary than the potential of the unknown.
If only we could condition ourselves toward action, we’d finally start living the lives we’ve dreamed of while slogging through the one we own.
Here’s my solution: create situations that require action. Create a challenge where you can only be comfortable after you’ve done something hard.
On this particular trip, I couldn’t rest in my sleeping bag until I’d finished the day’s hike. Then I couldn’t get warm the next morning until I dragged my shivering ass from the bag, packed up my tent, and hit the trail. I was physically forced to exert effort before I could find any remote degree of comfort.
Comfort should only come after action. After effort. After a little bit of pain.
I don’t mean always—that’s not realistic. But probably more often than it does for you now.
We all live cushy lives. You’re probably reading this on a laptop or a cellphone while drinking a coffee you bought. I bet you’re sitting in your climate controlled house. Maybe you’re even using this article as an excuse to procrastinate from your white collar job. I’m not judging you. The only reason I can so accurately describe your life is because mine is the same.
But as easy as my life is, I try to make it hard now and then. I try to earn my comfort as often as possible. I try to make myself act.
I do it because any worthwhile accomplishment is the direct result of action. Whether that accomplishment is warming up enough to feel your fingers, landing your dream job, or winning an Olympic medal, action is required.
Inaction often feels better. It feels comfortable. It feels safe. But inaction won't take you to the places you want to go. In many cases, it will take you exactly where you don't want to go—a dead end job, a diabetes diagnosis, a finger burned with frostbite.
Inaction creeps in when we let down our guard. We need to condition ourselves to action if we want a life worth living.
Maybe shivering yourself awake in a tent on a mountain isn’t your thing. Honestly, I don’t blame you. But I implore you to find your challenge. Because if you don’t force yourself to act, you’ll be forced to watch as the best version of yourself flashes before your eyes, never to be seen again.
Photo by Collin Armstrong on Unsplash
