Comfort Is the Enemy of Growth—Here’s How to Escape It

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone." – Neale Donald Walsch.

Let’s pause on this quote for a second. You’ve probably seen it everywhere—on mugs, magnets, wall art, even scribbled on office whiteboards. It’s one of those phrases that gets tossed around a lot because it resonates with something deep inside us. I have it as a magnet on my fridge, and to be honest, I can’t even remember when I got it—it’s been there that long.

But it’s more than just fridge décor for me. It’s a mantra I’ve carried through life, with my kids, my teams, and even in those quiet moments when I’m trying to pep-talk myself into bravery. Every time I find myself assessing a stagnant company, a team that’s plateaued, or even a friend stuck in a cycle of sameness, I almost always come back to one thought: They’re comfortable. And here’s the thing about comfort—it’s safe, but it’s also the enemy of growth. Comfort keeps us tethered to what’s easy, what’s familiar. So, let me ask you: How comfortable are you? Are there dreams you’ve shelved, risks you’ve avoided, or leaps you’ve talked yourself out of—all because you’re nestled in the cozy bubble of the known?

A recent conversation got me thinking about this quote in a whole new way. We were deep in discussion when the other person said something that stopped me in my tracks: “I’m more scared of the small stuff than I am of the big things. I’m willing to take the leap on the big stuff, but I get stuck in the little moments.” At the time, my response was almost instinctual: Life is made up of the small stuff. It’s those tiny, everyday moments where comfort creeps in the most. The habits we form, the routines we settle into—they’re the places we get the most comfortable, and honestly, the hardest to change. Jumping out of a plane or making a massive life decision? Sure, those take courage, but they’re rare. It’s the small, seemingly insignificant choices we make every single day where the real power lies. That’s where we have the chance to break the cycle and choose growth.

Let’s dive into one of those “big things,” like jumping out of a plane. Yes, I actually did this. Not long ago, my eldest, Matthew, turned 18. Not only was he graduating high school, but he already had a year of college under his belt. (Not to brag—okay, maybe just a little—but this kid is something special.) To celebrate, I told him to pick any destination, and we’d go. His choice? A road trip through the Southwest. Sounds like a dream, right? Until he dropped the bomb: he wanted to skydive. Now, let me paint you a picture. I’ve never once in my life looked at a perfectly good plane and thought, You know what would be fun? Jumping out of that. But Matthew had been dreaming of this for years. His excitement was infectious, and his reasoning bulletproof: “If not now, when?” So there I was, a mom who loves her two feet firmly planted on the ground, agreeing to hurl herself into the void.

I didn’t agree lightly. Oh no, I spent hours trying to talk him out of it. I researched every statistic, hoping to appeal to his logical side. Did you know there’s a 1 in 100,000 chance of something going horribly wrong? (His response: “Sounds pretty good to me.”) I suggested alternatives. How about a scenic helicopter ride? Nope, not thrilling enough. Matthew wanted the rush of freefalling over the Grand Canyon. And what’s a mom to do? So, I gave in. With my heart in my throat, I made the reservation. I waited until the last possible moment to book it, praying he’d change his mind. Spoiler: he didn’t. The moment we got to Sedona, the first words out of his mouth were, “When are we skydiving?”

Fast-forward two days. We arrived at the tiniest airport I’ve ever seen, just outside the Grand Canyon. Picture it: small prop planes lined up like toys, helicopters buzzing in and out, and a mix of thrill-seekers and nervous first-timers pacing the lobby. I was in the latter category. My stomach churned as we signed our waivers—basically a form saying, If you die, it’s on you. Charming. Come to think of it, this was Matthew's first contract he had to sign as an adult. We got paired with our tandem instructors—Matthew had Mike, and I was stuck with Matteus. “Stuck” isn’t fair, but let me tell you, Matteus was way too calm for someone about to jump out of a plane with me strapped to him. They walked us through the basics: keep your head back, don’t flail your arms, and for the love of everything, listen to your instructor. Easy, right?

Then it was time to walk to the runway. The little prop plane sat waiting for us, its engine humming. My heart raced as we approached, but just as we were about to board, the pilot turned around and said, “Sorry, we’re grounded. There’s a mechanical issue.” I nearly kissed him. Mechanical issue? Say no more. But then I looked at Matthew. The kid who had been buzzing with excitement now looked completely crushed. Moms, you know that feeling—the one where you’ll do anything to keep that light in their eyes. So, I asked if we could reschedule, and they said yes.

The next day came faster than I’d hoped. We spent the morning hiking the Grand Canyon, which would’ve been relaxing if I weren’t quietly spiraling. By the time we got back to the airport, my nerves were frayed. This time, there were no excuses. We suited up, boarded the plane, and started our ascent. The higher we climbed, the smaller the world looked. The Grand Canyon stretched below us, a maze of reds, oranges, and browns glowing in the sun. It was stunning, but I could barely appreciate it over the pounding of my heart.

Then came the moment of truth. They slid the door open, and the roar of the wind filled the cabin. Matthew volunteered to go first, and I was more than happy to let him. I needed to see him survive this before I could even consider it. I watched as he and Mike shuffled to the edge. One… two… three. And just like that, they were gone.

Matteus guided me to the door, the wind slamming against my face as I dangled my legs out of the plane. Everything in my body screamed, What are you doing? I clung to the harness, barely hearing Matteus over the roar. Head back, he reminded me. Legs out. Don’t think—just go.

One… two… three. We jumped. For a split second, I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for that stomach-dropping sensation. But it never came. Instead, it felt like floating. The air cradled us, rushing past but somehow holding us steady. I opened my eyes and was met with the most breathtaking view—the Grand Canyon stretching endlessly below, bathed in golden light. It was surreal.

We free-fell for 45 seconds, though it felt like both an eternity and a blink. Then Matteus pulled the parachute, and we jolted into a smooth glide. I laughed out loud, a mix of relief and awe. It was quiet now, the kind of peaceful that wraps around you and leaves no room for fear.

As we drifted toward the landing spot, I spotted Matthew, a tiny dot in the distance. I hoped he was feeling what I was—a mix of joy, freedom, and disbelief. When we landed (gracefully, I might add—no twisted ankles here), I turned to see him running toward me with the biggest grin. We hugged, laughing like two kids who’d just gotten away with something. That four-hour drive to Zion National Park was a blur of adrenaline and retelling every second of the jump. It was a memory we’ll both hold forever.

But here’s what I realized: the big risks? The ones that push you out of your comfort zone in a single, dramatic leap? They’re exhilarating, but they’re over in an instant. The small moments—the habits, the everyday decisions—they’re where the real growth happens. So why are those the ones that feel the hardest to change?

It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re willing to leap out of planes, metaphorically or literally, for a single moment of exhilaration. But when it comes to the small, everyday choices—the ones that truly shape our lives—suddenly, it’s hard.

Because here’s the truth: comfort is sneaky. It’s that warm cup of coffee in the morning, the familiar commute, the way we settle into the same chair at the dinner table. It’s the autopilot we don’t even realize we’re on. And at first, it feels good, like slipping into your favorite sweatshirt on a chilly day. But over time, comfort becomes routine, and routine becomes a rut.

Take a second and think about your own life. How many things do you do out of habit, not because they serve you, but because they’re easy? That workout you keep meaning to start—"I’ll do it tomorrow." That tough conversation you’ve been avoiding—"Now’s not the right time." That dream you’ve shelved because, well, life.

The thing about the small stuff is it doesn’t ask much of us. It whispers, “Just stay here. This is fine.” And it is—fine. But fine isn’t the same as growth. Growth asks us to do hard things, uncomfortable things. It asks us to recognize that the little choices we make every day are what add up to the big picture of our lives.

The problem is, comfort doesn’t feel like a villain. It doesn’t shove us into stagnation; it gently nudges us there. It tells us to press snooze, skip the scary-but-exciting opportunity, and avoid the path that feels uncertain. It keeps us in the safe zone, and it’s hard to fight back against something that feels so… cozy.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned: breaking the cycle doesn’t mean blowing up your life. You don’t have to quit your job tomorrow or uproot your family. It starts with one small step—a single moment of discomfort. Maybe it’s saying yes to something that scares you. Maybe it’s trying something new, even if you might fail. Maybe it’s simply acknowledging the rut you’re in and deciding you want out.

Comfort may be tempting, but it’s not where life happens. Life is in the moments where you push yourself, even just a little, toward something bigger.

Breaking the cycle of comfort isn’t easy. It starts with embracing something most of us spend our whole lives avoiding: failure. I know, I know—failure is scary. It’s uncomfortable. It’s the thing we’ve been taught to sidestep, laugh off, or fear. But here’s the truth: failure is the best teacher you’ll ever have.

As I always say, fail fast and fail often. Why? Because every failure is a lesson disguised as a setback. The faster you fail, the faster you learn what doesn’t work—and that puts you one step closer to figuring out what does.

The problem is, we’re conditioned to see failure as final. We think it’s the opposite of success, when really, it’s just a pit stop on the way there. Every successful person you admire has a highlight reel full of failures that never made the final cut. But those failures? They’re the reason the successes exist.

So how do you break the cycle and start experiencing growth? Here’s the key: you have to make peace with discomfort. You have to let go of the fear of falling flat on your face and focus on what you can gain from the experience.

Start small. Take one tiny step outside your comfort zone. Maybe it’s saying yes to an opportunity you’d normally avoid, even if it feels intimidating. Maybe it’s asking for feedback, even when you’re afraid it won’t be glowing. Maybe it’s finally starting that project or conversation or dream you’ve been avoiding because the fear of failure has been holding you hostage.

And when failure comes—because it will—don’t run from it. Sit with it. Look it in the eye and ask, What can I learn from this? Maybe it’s that you need to approach something differently. Maybe it’s that you need more preparation, more resources, or more patience. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that you’re braver and more capable than you realized.

The beauty of failing fast and often is that it frees you from the paralysis of perfection. You don’t have to get it right the first time—or the fifth or the fiftieth. Growth isn’t about getting it right; it’s about getting better.

The more you lean into failure, the more you’ll realize it’s not the monster under the bed you thought it was. In fact, failure often teaches you more about yourself than success ever could. It shows you where your limits are—and how to push past them. It reminds you that falling isn’t the end of the world, and getting back up is always an option.

So let yourself fail. Let yourself stumble, mess up, and try again. Each time you do, you’re breaking the cycle of comfort and creating space for something new—something better.

Because here’s the thing: growth isn’t clean or linear, but messy and complicated, full of false starts and missteps. But every failure is a step forward, as long as you’re willing to learn and keep moving.

Fail fast. Fail often. And most importantly, fail forward.

So here’s the challenge: start getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. Let yourself feel the awkwardness, the nerves, the uncertainty. Lean into it instead of running away from it. Because on the other side of discomfort lies something incredible: growth, joy, and a life that feels truly alive.

You don’t have to take massive leaps every day. Start small. Say yes when your gut reaction is to say no. Take one step toward the thing you’ve been avoiding. Let yourself fail, learn, and try again. It’s not about perfection—it’s about progress.

And here’s the promise I’ll leave you with: the other side of discomfort is where the magic happens. It’s where you find the joy you didn’t know you were missing, the strength you didn’t know you had, and the confidence that comes from knowing you’ve conquered your fears.

So take the leap. Dive into the unknown. Break the cycle of comfort and step into the life that’s waiting for you. Trust me—the view on the other side is breathtaking.