7 Things I Did After Reading The Comfort Crisis, And Why They Changed Me
After losing Lani, I didn’t go looking for comfort.
I had enough of that.
I needed clarity.
Challenge.
Something to shake me out of the autopilot I’d been surviving in.
Reading The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter gave me the nudge to lean into discomfort on purpose.
Not recklessly, but intentionally — with curiosity and commitment.
These are seven changes I made after reading the book.
Not theories.
Not tips.
Just real things I did, and what they gave me in return.
1. I Fasted With Intention
Fasting wasn’t new to me. I’ve dabbled over the years — 16:8, intermittent, the usual stuff.
But after reading the book, I started pushing the edge a bit.
I extended some fasts to 22 hours. And more than just “not eating,” I started to enjoy the discomfort of hunger. Sitting with it. Not rushing to end it the moment the clock said I could.
As well as all the health benefits that come with fasting, it trained something deeper than willpower. It built patience. It reminded me that I don’t need to react to every urge. I can observe it, breathe through it, and stay grounded.
2. I Did a Misogi
Misogi is a concept Easter writes about: it’s a challenge where you have a 50% chance of completing it. No spectators. No medals. No social media posts. It’s meant to push your edge in a way that’s personal.
For one person, that might be running a 10K for the first time. For another, it could be dragging a stone across the bottom of a lake — something wild and borderline ridiculous.
Rule 2 of a Misogi is that it should be something that doesn’t kill you.
I did my own Misogi. I won’t share the details (that’s one of the rules), but it was hard. Genuinely hard. I wasn’t sure if I’d get through it.
But I did. And in doing it, I gained quiet confidence — not from anyone else telling me “well done,” but from proving something to myself.
3. I Got Into Nature, Properly
Walking the dogs has always been part of my routine. But after reading the book, I stopped just “getting it done” and started being there.
I left my phone at home. I paid attention to the colours, the sounds, the way the light moved through the trees. I slowed down.
Now, I walk in nature for about 45 minutes each day. It’s not just good for the dogs — it’s vital for me.
The book recommends 20 minutes in nature, three times per week, and one five-hour dose of “wild nature” each month. I’m working toward that. Because it works. It calms the mind. Rebalances the nervous system. Reminds you you’re not just a brain and a to-do list — you’re a living, breathing human being.
4. I Sat in Silence (Especially With My Coffee)
One of the first changes I made was how I drank my morning coffee.
Before, I’d scroll. Check emails. Read the news. Something — anything — to fill the quiet.
Now, I just sit with it.
That cup of coffee has become a mini ritual of presence. No phone. No noise. Just quiet.
I try to extend that into other parts of my day too — when I eat, when I get in the ice bath, when I’m walking. Those little windows of silence give me clarity. They reduce the noise in my head. They reconnect me to myself.
5. I Let Myself Get Bored
This one hit differently. I realised how often I fill every gap in my day. Queue at the shops? Open Instagram. Waiting for the kettle to boil? Open WhatsApp.
Now, I catch myself and stop.
I’m even giving myself challenges. One I’ve got lined up: go to a restaurant alone without my phone. Just sit there. No distraction. No scrolling.
Because boredom isn’t a weakness — it’s a window. It’s where the best ideas come from. It’s where you learn to think again.
6. I Started Doing Hard Things in Public
Writing this blog. Launching The Rebuild Lab podcast. Recording videos for YouTube (coming soon).
These aren’t easy. I’m not “naturally” confident in front of a mic or camera (that was Lani’s area of genius). But I do them anyway. Because part of rebuilding myself is learning to step into discomfort.
Not to perform. But to grow.
Every post, every episode, every time I hit record — it’s another rep. And with each rep, I become someone I respect a little more.
7. I Started Rucking, And Stopped Avoiding Discomfort
Running has never been my thing.
For years, I stuck to what I liked — CrossFit workouts I was good at, movements I enjoyed, and quietly avoided the ones I didn’t. (Burpees, I’m looking at you.)
But reading The Comfort Crisis made me see how much of life I was still curating for comfort.
So I did something simple: I threw some weight into a backpack and started rucking. Sometimes I use my 14lb weighted vest. Sometimes I load up a backpack with weights. And I “run”.
Not far. Not fast. But enough to feel the discomfort — in my legs, in my lungs, and especially across my shoulders where the weight digs in.
The goal wasn’t fitness. It was friction. To feel something hard. And not stop.
Rucking has become a physical reminder that I can carry weight — literally and emotionally. That discomfort is a teacher, not an enemy. And that running toward the things I’ve avoided is often where growth lives.
Final Thoughts
None of this is about being tough for the sake of it. It’s not a competition. It’s about training yourself to handle life better — to face challenge without crumbling, and to reconnect with the parts of you that grief and comfort dulled.
If you’re going through your own version of a comfort crisis, maybe you don’t need more ease. Maybe you need more edge.
That’s what I chose. And I’m still rebuilding — one uncomfortable step at a time.
— Chris Spring
The Rebuild Lab
