Let me tell you a mundane fact that you probably already know: The human body is physically hollow. We have many cavities: in our chests, our stomachs, our mouths…

I’ll never forget this episode of RadioLab in which Jad Abumrad, the show’s charismatic host, says, oh so poetically, that the human body is a donut. How dare you call me empty! I thought to myself before conceding and fully realizing that, yes, the biologically normal human body is partially vacant. (Hell, we’re probably mostly air, atomically speaking, if you can imagine all the space that exists between the nucleus of an atom and its surrounding electrons). It’s true; we’re donuts: there’s a tube running from our mouths to our anuses (cue giggle) which “transforms what is outside of us [food] into something that IS us [our flesh].” I can’t help but marvel at the beauty and ingenuity of my arbitrarily designed body (a mixture of spliced genes from Mom and Dad and the ancestors who came before). Wow, just wow. I’m dumbfounded that we collectively still have so much to discover about our own selves, our biology, our spirit and soul, our minds, even our most banal features like excrement…

Anyway, what I’m leading up to is a lazy, tired, and trite metaphor: I know I’m literally empty on the inside, but I’m feeling exquisitely cavernous, metaphorically speaking, on this day, and, my goodness, does this enormous, loneliness cause me inconsolable discomfort.

And even though I know this “I am a cave incarnate” feeling (oh, look how flowery I can be, blech!) is at worst unoriginal, and paradoxically at best, universal and part of the human experience, it still feels like a painful and isolating force and brings to mind a quote by one of my favorite women, Miranda July:

“All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life - where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.”

Enlightened Buddhists, helping professionals, and authors of self-help literature always advise the initially absurd-seeming, but undoubtedly wise method of “sitting with the pain, discomfort, or feeling.” Better yet, lean into it. Be inquisitive about the visceral reaction that’s taken up residence in your body; interact with it; ask it who it is and why it’s there: “What is your nature? Where (and why) is your genesis?” What purpose is it trying to serve? What self-truth can it help you reveal? The worse thing you can do is numb this thing that is trying most fervently to help you. By numbing, you could only do yourself a temporary favor and a long-term disservice by delaying, if not stunting, the difficult, but required process of self-discovery.

Alas, most everything is easier said than done, right? But perhaps cognitive understanding and awareness are the inevitable first steps in mastering the art of pain tolerance. And perhaps that, alone, will be the most consoling invention of mine in this moment.