The Cost of Comfort

I remember one instance when I felt intense dread and anxiety. I was 15, on an overnight class trip, and the room arrangements meant I’d be sharing two large beds with three other boys my age.

I hadn’t come out yet, but my classmates had guessed the truth. There was less trouble in not acknowledging it.

When we entered the room, I sensed the awkwardness in the group; someone would have to share a bed with the gay kid. My stomach turned. More than most, I hated making other people uncomfortable, but in that moment, there was no way to soothe them without confessing.

In the other bed, the two boys were fast asleep snoring. I stayed up watching TV, and so did the boy beside me. I prolonged it as long as I could, delaying the moment of dread I knew was coming. Eventually, we both grew tired and turned off the TV. It was dark and it was quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said.

At 30, I think of that moment very differently.

It was one of the first times a straight classmate showed me quiet understanding and affirmed me anyway.

That moment revealed beliefs I carried for years:

I accept the discomfort of others, and their rejection of me, as my fault; evidence of not being enough.

Conversely, I feel loving and kind by prioritizing the comfort and needs of others above my own.

That philosophy shaped much of the decision-making in my young adulthood. I convinced myself there was value in being that person, even if it cost me pieces of myself. Good people give and sacrifice and bleed for others, I thought. That’s how I thought I showed real love.

As I reflect at 30, I can see that that belief, while rooted in a noble pursuit, is incredibly misguided. It’s true that love and self-sacrifice are inseparable, but we cannot conflate sacrifice with dishonor of the self and personal abandonment.

I’m still learning, but I’m much better.