Why We Choose a Familiar Hell Over an Unfamiliar Heaven

Finding Peace in the Post-Achievement Crash

I just wrapped up chairing my preschooler's annual auction. It was my second time volunteering, and I ran the entire event this time around. It was a big task and while I loved heading an amazing team of 15 people and we raised well over our goal, I can't help but resent the fact that these all-consuming/brain-draining/full-time-job-appearing fundraising roles disproportionately fall on the moms.

Of course, my paid work has taken the back burner, so "naturally" I have the time to lean into these kinds of projects, which pushes my purpose-driven work to the back seat even more. Naturally.

It's a loop I can't seem to break free from right now, and because I love producing and leading and I believe in the cause–I believe in my kids, and I believe in the benefit of the enrichment programs we are providing–I accept this honored position and I did my absolute best.

As the successful night came to a close, fellow volunteers laughed, "You know we're going to be doing this again next year" and I chuckled right back, knowing I likely will and I likely will work even harder, which means my purpose-driven career work will be even more of a distant memory. That gray space I talked about a few weeks ago is starting to feel vaster and vaster.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I didn't want to complain about a problem of my own making. I'm the one who volunteers. I could set better boundaries. I make these choices. And I love creating these events. I'm well aware of my part. I just wish there was some kind of compensation for those involved. Especially the moms who spearhead these things year after year.

Instead, I want to talk about how we choose our own pain. How we tend to contract after a big expansion.

Image by Marion from Pixabay

There is a saying in nervous system healing circles: "We'd rather choose a familiar hell than an unfamiliar heaven." Whether you're aware of it or not, you'd rather suffer in familiarity than experience the peace and freedom of something new. It's just how the human nervous system (and particularly, the female nervous system) works.

It's why we're always depressed after huge endeavors (like chairing a fundraiser or throwing an epic party or spear-heading a big project). It's why our kids are shells of themselves that week between the holidays and school starting. It's why some dates would seem super hot and connected and then you'd never hear from that person again.

There's a natural rebound effect to any expansion.

The tide ebbs as much as it flows. The moon wanes just as it waxes. We will always contract in proportion to the amount we expand. And in many cases we will unconsciously choose to stay small simply because being bigger feels unsafe.

It's not all doom and gloom though. Growth can happen. It does. We just have to learn how to finesse change and in order for that to happen, we have to learn how to lean into the rebound.

There will always be a dip on the other side of expansion. What if rather than fighting it and forcing ourselves back out there, causing us to further retract, we returned to the cave and rested?

We can schedule in the down days and expect the energy drop. We can cycle-synch our productivity and bake in the space for the fallow periods that must come after the huge harvest.

It's not that things have stopped growing. It's that the ground is replenishing itself for the next bloom. It needs rest. It needs a break. But if we keep picking at every weed and refusing to nurture our soil, nothing will grow and the next crop is bound to be barren if not spoiled.

Lasting change has to happen slowly over time. It has to happen with built in pauses that welcome the rebound. Not as a retraction back to the way things were, but a slowing down to calibrate how far we've come.

Remember that preschool auction I chaired? My familiar hell was taking on too much volunteer work while pushing my purpose-driven career to the back seat. The unfamiliar heaven might be embracing the natural cycle of expansion and contraction—allowing myself to rest after big efforts rather than immediately jumping into the next project. What if instead of resenting the pattern, I recognized it as part of a natural rhythm that, when honored, could actually support my growth?

The next time you find yourself recoiling and rebounding, rather than shutting yourself down completely or pressing yourself desperately forward, what if you embraced the call to slow down? What if you trusted this was a natural pulling back after a leap forward and rather than setting you back, it was, in fact, setting you up to spring even further the next time?