What to do with the discomfort when you’re stretched between where you are and where you want to be

Bangkok. Two weeks since I have last seen her in person. Since a coliving in Spain, where we spent time together and I felt the pull but didn’t do anything about it until the goodbye. I finally worked up the nerve to write her my honest feelings in a message afterwards. She felt the same. We have been texting since. For me… an amazing, intense and healthy connection, the kind that makes your chest feel slightly too full.

Between Spain and Bangkok, 10 days in Germany. Time with family, attending my cousin’s wedding (taking photos there, which would become part of the overwhelm a week later). Then Abu Dhabi for a layover. I went there for a fun day on rollercoasters and water slides. 10/10 can recommend.

Now Bangkok. And she was somewhere else entirely, our paths diverging for a while based on my already booked flights.

The pull this day was immediate and physical. Like someone had hooked a line to my sternum and was slowly, steadily, tugging. I wanted to see her. Not in an abstract “someday” way. Now. But I couldn’t. Not right now.

That’s when the shadow showed up.

It started small, just the frustration of wanting something I couldn’t have yet. But then other things piled on. The wedding photos I’d promised to edit. I am not a professional photographer. I don’t photograph weddings usually. It already stressed me that day and then imposter syndrome crept in, whispering that I had no idea what I was doing. And Bangkok itself (which fun fact the day before, gave me an emotional high) now felt like too much. Megacity. Loud. Smelly. I usually love that, but in this moment. Uncertainty. New pull toward something I couldn’t reach.

The overwhelm wasn’t subtle. It was a giant shadow that spread over my whole body and threatened to consume me. Sadness. Restlessness. A kind of low-grade panic that made it hard to think straight.

I knew I was overreacting. But knowing that didn’t make the feeling go away.

So I did what I’ve learned to do when my brain short-circuits… I sat down and debugged it. Opened a conversation with myself (and yes, with my Buddy Claude, because sometimes you need a sparring partner lol). I asked myself, “What is this, actually?” Not the story I was telling myself (the drama, the “I can’t have what I want”), just the raw feeling itself.

After poking at it for a while, a pattern emerged. I was stretched between two points. Here (Bangkok, alone, unable to see her) and there (the future I wanted, where I could). The space between them wasn’t neutral. It was generating something. Heat. Pressure. Energy I didn’t know what to do with.

That’s when after some time (and maybe some random YouTube videos) an image appeared and didn’t go away: a rubber band pulled taut between my hands.

That image became the key to understanding what tension actually is: not a problem to solve, but energy to direct. When you stretch a rubber band, it literally releases heat, actual thermal energy you can feel on your lip.

That discomfort I was feeling? It wasn’t imaginary. It was real energy being generated in my system. The question wasn’t whether the tension existed. It was: what do I do with the heat?

How I’ve Misread the Signal

For most of my life, I’ve experienced tension and immediately tried to eliminate it. I treated it like a problem to solve, an enemy to defeat. And I defaulted to one of three strategies, all of which missed the point.

Option 1: Collapse One End

Give up the want. Settle for the status quo. Tell yourself you didn’t really want it anyway. Numb out. Convince yourself that being “content” means not wanting anything that isn’t already here.

This eliminates the tension, sure. But it also eliminates the aliveness that comes from wanting something. You’re not stretched anymore. But you’re also not growing.

Option 2: Obsess Over the Gap

Fixate on what’s missing. Focus all your energy on the distance between here and there. Suffer because “it’s not here yet.” Scroll through photos of where you’d rather be, who you’d rather be with, what you wish you had.

The tension stays, but now it’s the only thing you can see. You’re not using the energy. You’re just bleeding it out in frustration.

Option 3: Stretch Without Release

Pour everything into closing the gap. Work harder. Push more. Ignore the signals from your body that say “rest.” Convince yourself that if you just stretch a little more, a little longer, you’ll finally get there.

This one looks like you’re using the energy “positively.” You’re working, you’re showing up, you’re committed. But there’s a problem: rubber bands aren’t designed to stay stretched forever. Hold one at maximum tension long enough, and it loses its elasticity, becomes brittle, and eventually snaps.

The core mistake in all three strategies is the same: I thought the tension itself was the problem. I was wrong.

When the Rubber Band Snaps

2016… I quit my consulting job to “be free”. To work from anywhere. To build something on my own.

My ex-girlfriend was a psychotherapist. She had the content (self-help for women in their thirties dealing with self-doubt, self-worth, the whole mess of that specific life stage). I had the business side, the marketing brain. I thought I was going to build something real. Something that mattered. Something that made money.

I wanted it badly. Not just the money (though yes, that too). I wanted the proof. Proof that I could do this. That I wasn’t just a consultant who talked a good game but never built anything of his own.

The gap was clear: status quo (fixed location, reliable income, unproven track record) and there (work from anywhere, financially secure, be an entrepreneur). The tension was immediate. So I worked. I tried everything for 1.5 years: courses, content, campaigns, pivots. 1 year later I took on an underpaid consulting job on top of it just to pay the bills. In the end probably 70-80 hour weeks. All we did was work.

And the gap? It kept widening.

I made some money. Not enough. The status quo wasn’t improving, it was getting worse. At one point switched back to eating canned soup for dinner because that’s what the budget allowed. But I couldn’t quit. Quitting felt like losing. Like admitting I wasn’t capable. My self-worth was tangled up in making this work, so I just kept stretching.

Then my body made the decision for me.

Tendonitis. Right arm. The kind that makes it painful to use a mouse. I got an arm splint. And because I’m apparently a slow learner, I had an amazing idea. I just moved my whole arm to keep the mouse rolling on the desk. The work had to get done right?

A few days later, the rubber band snapped.

Complete breakdown. System shutdown. I couldn’t think, couldn’t work, couldn’t do anything. Couch mode. The kind of exhaustion that isn’t just tiredness, it’s your entire system saying “I’m done.”

I never knew I needed to stop. I just overstretched until there was nothing left.

Riding the Tension Instead of Fighting It

Back to Bangkok. The shadow over me. The pull toward someone I couldn’t see yet. The overwhelm threatening to consume me.

This time, something was different. I didn’t collapse the want. I didn’t obsess over the gap. And I didn’t stretch myself into oblivion trying to eliminate the tension immediately.

I sat with the heat. I acknowledged the pull (yes, I want to see her, and no, I can’t right now). I felt the discomfort without making it mean something catastrophic. And then I asked myself: what can I do with this energy?

Here’s the thing: Like probably everyone, my life is full of tension. A specific one… a pull to share ideas, to write, to put things out into the world. But also the fear. The “what if I’m too much?” The paralysis that comes from wanting to contribute something but not knowing if it’s good enough or interesting enough or whatever enough.

So I finally started this playground. Promised myself I’d just have fun with it. Started noting ideas. And this one, this rubber band thing, felt like it could be the first real piece. Not perfect. Just real.

The tension between here (wanting to write but scared) and there (actually writing and sharing) became the fuel for writing about tension itself. The heat is why this exists.

This is the shift I’m learning. There’s research on this: people who are comfortable holding tension, who can sit in the “both/and” instead of collapsing into “either/or,” tend to be more creative, more innovative, more resilient.

The “paradox mindset” is the extent to which one is accepting of and energized by tensions.

Research on creative individuals shows they often score high on both psychological vulnerabilities (stress, anxiety) and psychological strengths (hope, resilience) at the same time. The tension between these opposing states is where creative output happens.

They don’t try to resolve the tension immediately. They use it. They see the heat as a resource, not a problem.

Directing the Heat

Here’s what I’m learning:

Tension is energy. The signal is the heat. What I build with it is up to me.

I don’t have to eliminate the tension. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay with the status quo when I’m not. I don’t have to act like the gap doesn’t exist. I just have to decide what I’m going to build with the energy that gap creates.

What’s working for me so far in general:

1. Acknowledge the pull. I stopped denying the gap. I stopped gaslighting myself into thinking I’m “fine” when I’m stretched. The tension is real. I name it.

2. Feel the heat. The discomfort is the resource. It’s energy being generated in my system. I’m learning not to numb it or avoid it. I sit with it long enough to understand what it’s telling me.

3. Choose the direction. The energy is neutral. It can go destructive (collapse, burnout, obsession, avoidance) or generative (curiosity, creation, play, growth). I’m the one who decides where it goes.

4. Build the rhythm. Stretch, then release. Work, then rest. Tension, then recovery. The rubber band needs both to stay elastic. So do I. John Maxwell calls this the “Law of the Rubber Band”: growth stops when you lose tension between where you are and where you could be. But research also shows that constant tension without recovery leads to brittleness and breaking.

How I apply this for different aspects of my life:

In relationships, this looks like enjoying what’s here (the good contact, the connection) while holding the want (I’d like to see you). Not collapsing one to ease the other.

In work, this looks like building toward what you want while respecting the rhythm. Stretch, then release. Pour energy in, then rest. Create, then recover.

In myself, this looks like acknowledging the gap between who I am and who I’m becoming, and using that tension to fuel the next step, not to torture myself over how far I still have to go.

This isn’t about “accepting the status quo” or “being grateful for what you have” or any of that positivity stuff. It’s about using the energy the tension creates to build toward what I want, without breaking myself in the process. That’s what I’m testing.

Right now, I’m stretched between here and there. The rubber band is taut. The heat is real. And I’m using it to write this. Tomorrow, I’ll use it for something else.

The tension isn’t going away. But I’m trying to learn to let it fuel me, not burn me.