Expanding around the lump

I’ve got this lump. It lives somewhere deep in my gut.
It’s been there for over 600 days now.
Some days it’s barely noticeable. Other days, it nags.
But it’s always there.

Yesterday, while driving to a meeting, I felt it strongly.
Now, just to be clear — I’m not an activist.
I often feel I should be, but I’m not.
I don’t want to give the impression that every waking moment I’m engaged with the war and its ongoing impact on us, as individuals and as a society. But still — the lump remains.

Sometimes the lump collects the day’s debris — worries and irritations clinging like damp clay, adding to it’s weight. Something someone said. Something that didn’t work out.
Like many of us, I’ve spent years learning how to fight lumps like this:
to push them away, ignore them, numb them, fix them.

But this one’s different.

Back to that drive.
As I noticed the lump showing up, I chose to slow down for a moment. (Not my driving — just my attention!)

I let myself feel it, explore it.
To remember why it’s there.

It’s there because there are things happening around me — around us — that are inconsolable.

Because I care.

Because I’m human.

This time, I’m letting it be there.
Not because I enjoy it. Not because I’ve given up.
But because it’s okay — human — for it to be there.

This lump doesn’t need to go away in order for me to live.
In fact, sometimes it reminds me of what really matters:
The people I love. The values I want to live by.
The kind of person I hope to be.

So instead of fighting it, I pause.
I notice it in my body. I pay attention to its shape, its weight.
I breathe.
This what self-compassion really asks of us — not to fix, but to be willing to stay with what’s there.

And then I ask:

If this lump weren’t here — or even if it still was — what would I like to do right now?

So I changed the radio station.
Found some music I like.
Not to drown anything out — just to make a bit of space.
Later, I found ten minutes to do some plank exercises.

Small things.

It’s not always easy. It doesn’t magically make life better.
But it opens something up. A little more space. A little more freedom.
Not to remove the lump — but to grow around it.
To expand, despite it. Maybe even because of it.

Because this isn’t about winning against discomfort.
It’s about making room for life.