Undone
Is there beauty to pain?
Pain demands attention. It lingers in the shadows of our lives, waiting for the perfect song or the weight of silence to draw it to the surface. And when it rises, there’s something strangely intoxicating about it—a sharp, exquisite ache. Sad songs, in the right state of mind, become a balm to our wounds, a bittersweet accompaniment to salty tears. They make us feel alive in our grief, deeply present in the ache. Listen to Lana Del Rey when sadness takes hold—her melancholic masterpieces cradle your sorrow, softening the edges. Even the act of listening stabilizes the heart, tethering us as we navigate the storm within.
Every Buddhist will tell you not to linger too long in any state of mind, to observe your emotions like clouds drifting across a vast sky. A poetic practice, yes—but not an easy one. Why does it feel so natural, so tempting, to cling to what hurts? Why do we hold tight to places we say we don’t want to be?
And why must we live at the extremes, swinging from the romanticizing of pain to an obsession with forced positivity? Why do we insist on dividing our emotions into "good" and "bad," when they are all part of the same tapestry—woven with threads of light and shadow alike?
Sadness, anger, euphoria, love—each one calls us to action in its own way. To say there is beauty in all of them may feel like a cliché, but it doesn’t make it any less true. There’s a power in allowing yourself to feel fully, in embracing the weight of your emotions rather than fleeing from them. Let them move through you. Let them teach you. Then let them go. Running from discomfort only traps you in its grip. Repression doesn’t heal—it festers, burrows deeper, leaving you stuck, fearful, and unfulfilled. But when you surrender to what you feel—when you let the emotion flow like water through your veins—it passes. The pain softens, dissolves, leaving behind something quieter, clearer, and achingly light.
It takes courage to feel so deeply. To lean into sadness or anger is not weakness—it’s a reclamation. Pain strips you down, breaks you open, but in that breaking, it makes space. It is both a destroyer and a creator, carving out room for newness to enter.
The obsession with relentless positivity is its own kind of poison. It’s toxic, unattainable, and false. Even saints were not always serene. The constant need to keep things cool, to pretend you’re unbothered by the jagged edges of life, can drive anyone to the brink. I’ve been there, clinging to the facade of calm while unraveling inside.
Stoicism may seem like the perfect balance—calm amidst the chaos—but would we have the sonnets, the love songs, the impassioned confessions of art, without the mess? Passion, after all, is born of turmoil. I thank the artists who dare to bare their darkest truths, who transform their wounds into something luminous. Their vulnerability makes you feel less alone, a reminder that even in your rawest moments, you are part of something universal.
Setting aside lofty sentiments, my point is simple: Feel what you need to feel. Let it last as long as it must—days, weeks, months. If you need to learn, heal, rest, or push yourself, honor that too. Don’t run from pain. It does not mean you have failed, nor does it mean you are destined for endless misery. Trust your body, your heart—they know what to do. They will find their way back to balance if you give them the space to do so.
Fly high. Dive deep. Let it all pass through you. Lose yourself in the current of your emotions. You might be surprised by what you find—not just comfort or clarity, but something real, something that breathes.
And remember: there are two sides to a coin. There is no pleasure without pain, no love without heartbreak. I know it’s so fucking cliché, but it’s true. Life is not always beauty and happiness. It doesn’t always feel fair. And failing doesn’t make you a disaster. Look at your pain, acknowledge it, even love it. See how the power it holds over you dissolves. It only proves one thing: you are alive.
