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Writing doesn’t come easy for me. Are you surprised by that? It has always been uncomfortable beginning a writing session, especially if I’m writing from a familiar place.
It used to bother me because, in my mind, the one thing I truly enjoyed doing wasn’t a walk in the park; it took effort. Then, over time, I came to understand that doing the hard thing — doing the uncomfortable thing — was what made my writing engaging.

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Nietzsche once said, “The snake that cannot shed its skin must perish.” If you stop evolving, you start dying. And the worst part? Most people don’t even realise it’s happening. Because comfort doesn’t scream, it whispers. It lulls. It makes you feel safe while stealing your purpose in tiny, invisible increments.
You might not see it yet, but it’s there.

You stop dreaming big because it’s easier to scroll. You don’t speak up because rocking the boat feels risky. You let go of goals that require sweat because why suffer when you can stream your life away?
Don’t get me wrong—rest is necessary. Stillness matters. But when comfort becomes your home base, your emotional operating system, your go-to response to challenge... You rot. Slowly.
I’ve felt it myself.

When I stay too long in easy routines, my creativity dims. I don’t feel sharp. I start avoiding the blank page, second-guessing the stories I once burned to tell. That’s when I know I’ve been seduced by ease. And I have to break the spell.
So I write without judgement, I exercise, I practise Spanish, I fast. All the painful things. I choose them deliberately—not to punish myself but to remember who I am.
Because life without resistance is life without revelation.

Jung saw this coming. He called it “the neurosis of meaninglessness”—people drowning in lives that feel safe but hollow. Lives where you get everything you want… without a reason to want it.
Comfort is a master illusionist. It makes you think you’re at peace when you’re just numb. It offers relief but not renewal. It gives you Friday night drinks but not Monday morning fire. And it teaches you to avoid the very friction that forges who you’re meant to become.

You don’t rise from balance. You rise from the push. From stretch. From the shock of confronting your own unrealised potential.
Discomfort is not your enemy.
Discomfort is your portal.
That tension you feel? That edge where you’re unsure? That’s the entrance to becoming. And you don’t need to flip your life upside down. Just step out of your comfort zone—on purpose. Choose one thing that sucks a little that stretches your will. And do it.

I’m not romanticising struggle. I’m warning you about sedation because I’ve seen what happens when comfort becomes identity. People forget how to fight for themselves. And when life eventually punches them in the mouth—and it will—they’re too soft to swing back.

You don’t need to be broken to grow. You need truth.
The truth is that the good life isn’t always the easy one.
It’s the one that forces you to earn your reflection. The one where you’ve tested your resilience, not just rehearsed your routine. It’s the one where you can say: I didn’t just exist—I evolved.

Escape the comfort trap. Not all of it. But enough to wake up again.
Because you can’t build a powerful life on cruise control.
And you were never meant to be asleep on your feet.

Peace, love and power.

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Newsletter By a Black Speculative Fiction Author, Living, Not Just Dreaming