So much of daily life is about making things more comfortable. We work hard to buy a newer, more comfortable car. A bigger television so that watching it feels better. A new sofa so that we can watch our newer, larger television even more comfortably. Sometimes we renovate because something genuinely needs fixing. But often, if we are honest, we simply want life to feel more comfortable.
Comfort is not only physical. We also look for psychological comfort. Why do we sometimes buy fashionable, iconic and outrageously expensive trainers instead of a much cheaper pair that looks almost the same? Not necessarily because the expensive pair is more comfortable on our feet. It may simply feel more comfortable in our head. We feel different wearing the brand everyone recognises.
The same thing happens with our beliefs. Many of them begin as opinions we heard from someone we considered an authority. Others come from the majority around us — from ideas about which trainers are fashionable all the way to political or religious views.
For many years, our authorities are teachers, grandparents and parents. A teacher tells us whether our carefully drawn picture is good. Parents tell us whether the soup tastes nice, whether a teacher is fair, or even whether the emotion we are feeling is something we ought to feel. For years — sometimes for life — we assume they were right simply because they were our authorities.
Then childhood ends and adult life arrives with an endless list of things to do: work, relationships, friends, careers, children, dogs. All of it happens alongside our pursuit of comfort. Perhaps we hurry to buy the newest phone because the one we have is suddenly no longer good enough.
But what happens to our beliefs? Often, nothing. We do not examine them because we have neither the time nor the energy. And because leaving them untouched is comfortable. We are so busy doing and rushing that asking ourselves what we really think about the environment, politics, religion or the meaning of life feels like far too much work. So we keep walking through life with a backpack full of convictions.
If we add what we call “faith” to that backpack, the load can become even heavier. Belief systems can be wonderfully convenient: they can seem to provide a ready-made answer to every question. A dilemma appears and, instead of sitting with uncertainty, we reach into the backpack and pull out an answer we have inherited. Problem solved. Convenient, isn’t it?
Taking Stock
None of this is especially surprising. It is part of how human life works. The problem begins when we carry that baggage for too long without ever checking what is inside.
It is like moving from one house to another and automatically transporting thousands of objects we no longer need — things we had forgotten we even owned. Some were gifts from people we love, which makes throwing them away feel almost impossible. What if the person who gave them to us would be hurt? What if they might still come in handy one day?
Beliefs can work in exactly the same way — and the stakes are much higher.
Why do we carry that backpack for so many years, sometimes for an entire lifetime, without looking inside? As time passes, the weight begins to hurt, but we keep walking.
Perhaps we sense that if we finally unpack it and examine our convictions one by one, we may discover that some of them no longer fit. Then what? If they were given to us by people we love — people who still believe in them deeply — how do we let them go? Will we hurt someone? And if we reject an old belief, we may have to create something of our own in its place. That requires thought. It is difficult. It is uncomfortable.
Fear of what is new and unknown can make us sleepwalk through life. And in a sense, sleep is pleasant. We do not have to think, question, analyse or struggle. We lean on familiar patterns inherited from our country, religion or family and repeat them automatically.
At some point in life, it is worth sitting down, emptying the contents of that backpack onto the floor and looking at everything we have carried since childhood.
It is worth asking which parts still feel true to us and which do not. Perhaps we will discover, after deep and honest reflection, that we still agree with everything we inherited. That is a perfectly valid answer. The important part is that it becomes our answer rather than an unexamined inheritance.
Doing uncomfortable things allows us to see life differently — through our own eyes, with a fresher perspective. That can bring an extraordinary sense of freedom.
I once read that happiness is connected with congruence: thinking, saying and doing the same thing. It sounds simple. In practice, it can be remarkably difficult. Sometimes it is not even convenient. But it may still be worth it.