How to Get Uncomfortable and Unlock Your Creative Potential in Storytelling

Photo by Matthew Payne on Unsplash

The Most Important Advice I Can Give About Storytelling

If there’s one thing I can say with absolute certainty about storytelling, it’s this: get uncomfortable.

Step out of your comfort zone and do the sh*t in life that scares you.

Especially if it keeps you up at night. Especially if you can’t fight thinking about it every day.

And I’m not saying you have to climb Everest or sail across the Pacific. Nah, I’m talking about getting uncomfortable in situations that specifically matter to you.

Even if it seems small. Even if it feels embarrassing. Even if the voice in your head tells you it’s stupid.

At some point in our lives (often multiple points), we all have that thing.

That thing we can’t stop dreaming about, but the thought of doing it in real life makes us pee a little. That’s the kind of discomfort I’m talking about.

I know this because I had that thing too.

And the particular time I’m thinking about seemed simple. Frankly, it seemed dumb. Preposterous. And yet, I found it terrifying.

I can’t help but cringe every time I think about it, but it might be the single most important catalyst for significant positive change in my adult life. So, whatever. Here goes.

My Sushi Bar Adventure

In my mid 20s, I found myself in one of the darkest, loneliest periods of my life. I spent tons of time daydreaming about things I wanted to experience but was way too chicken to try. One of those things, sadly enough, was eating in a restaurant by myself. For some reason, the idea of sitting alone in a public place filled me with absolute dread, which is probably why, deep down, I knew I had to do it.

There was a sushi place in my neighborhood that I drove by nearly every day. From the outside, this strip mall restaurant appeared cozy and inviting, and the parking lot always looked full. Good sign, right? So, I’d zoom by and think, Man, a sushi spot in my neighborhood. I need to try this place out now!

I’d grown to love sushi in the two years I’d spent with a girlfriend leading up to this period. But we’d since broken up, and I was no longer dating anyone. I’d also done a terrible job keeping in touch with friends, and the thought of dining alone made my stomach churn.

And yet, this nagging feeling kept eating at me until, one evening, I went for it.

I showered. Combed my hair. Put on slacks and a collared shirt like I wore to work. I circled the block the restaurant was on, possibly twice, mustering the sliver of courage that floundered in the pit of my gut. When I finally pulled into the parking lot, it seemed oddly empty.

I tugged on the heavy door of the restaurant and trudged inside. Even though tinier than expected, the place felt packed. The summer air was as warm inside as outside, and I immediately started sweating through my shirt. The host directed me to a little table, dead center in the room.

The staff and chefs were welcoming. Patrons smiled and laughed, and the surrounding chatter was good-natured, like everyone here were old friends. But the heat of the room pressed against me as a growing stream trickled down my back.

Amidst the soft scrape of chopsticks against wooden plates and the occasional clink of glass, I kept my head low and focused on downing my glistening slices of raw fish. When I peeked at other diners, they smiled and nodded at me. I swore I could hear subtle invitations to join in on the banter, and yet all I could think about was how these people must see me—this sad, pathetic loser who couldn’t find a single person to eat with.

I chuckled to myself when others laughed and nodded when someone said the tiniest thing I remotely agreed with, but I was too stuck on the idea of me being a reject, a pariah, for me to connect with anyone else in that restaurant. So, I stuffed my face as fast as I could, paid the bill, and left with my chin to my chest, feeling like my heart was about to burst.

It was awful. Like, Lord-take-me-now awful.

But I didn’t die. I’m somehow alive to tell you this embarrassing little tale.

Why That Moment Was Crucial for Storytelling

That night, I learned one of the most valuable lessons for a storyteller: resilience. Not just the resilience of surviving an awkward moment, but the deeper kind that builds empathy and understanding—qualities every storyteller needs. Great stories are built on characters who are tested, pushed to their limits, and forced to grow. As writers, we need to go through our own moments of discomfort to create those authentic, relatable struggles on the page.

Life Isn’t About Comfort—It’s About Living

Everyone talks about self-care these days, and yes, it is important. No doubt.

But here’s the thing: self-care does not mean cocooning yourself in comfort and avoiding anything that feels challenging. If I had stuck to what was easy, I’d still be hiding out in the same backhouse, binging on movies and TV, and steering clear of the real world. I wouldn’t have a wife, kids, a career in story development, or much of anything that truly matters in my life.

Living is about leaning into discomfort.

It’s about taking the hard steps—the ones that make your palms sweat and your heart speed up—because those are the moments that shape who you are.

They’re how you grow. They’re how you find the depth you need to craft stories that resonate.

The Sensory Truth of Storytelling

It’s not just the big moments that make stories work—it’s the little details. The soft hum of conversation around a cramped table. The stickiness of sweat pooling beneath your shirt when you’re nervous. The way cold sashimi melts in your mouth, its texture as delicate as the resolve you’re trying to summon.

These are the things you can only know through lived experience.

So, when you’re not writing, get out there and get uncomfortable.

Live.

The more you experience, the more you can fill your stories with the authentic richness of life. These details—small as they might seem—are what ground your readers in your world. They’re what bring your characters to life, make them real, and make the readers feel what your characters are feeling.

The Bottom Line

So, here’s my advice: get out there. Do the things that scare you. You don’t have to climb mountains, bungee jump, or ride a motorcycle (all things I’ve done since my sushi bar adventure).

Just take the first step. Whether it’s eating at a restaurant alone or tackling a tough conversation, dare to venture into the unfamiliar and make it happen.

Life is messy. But it’s in the mess where your stories—and resilience—are born.