You Can’t Escape the Pain—But You Can Be Worthy of It

Why the Real Work Isn’t Fixing or Fleeing—It’s Patience, Presence, and the Sacred Power of Suffering with Purpose

They come in fast.
Men and women.
Raw, spinning, unraveling at the seams, and yet strangely urgent—urgency wrapped in desperation, trying to outrun the pain or out-think the grief or outmaneuver the slow, grinding silence of not knowing what the hell comes next.

They’ve usually done something. Talked to a therapist. Downloaded the meditation app. Joined the gym. Read the book. Hell, they’ve read all the books. The ones promising five steps to peace or ten keys to breakthrough or the morning routine of highly effective people.

But the thing still won’t move.
The grief won’t budge.
The ache won’t go away.
The fog won’t lift.
And so, they show up in my office, or on the screen, or on the phone—and whether I’m wearing the hat of coach or counselor, therapist or rabbi, spiritual guide or just another human being who’s had to learn how to bleed with purpose—their plea is almost always the same:

“Just tell me what to do.”
“Help me fix this.”
“Make it go away.”
“And for the love of God, make it go away now.”

Because we live in a world that runs on now—a world so obsessed with speed and addicted to immediacy that we forget the most important and sacred parts of the human experience can’t be downloaded, scheduled, hacked, or optimized.

They have to be lived through.
Held.
Endured.
And yes, suffered.

The Illusion of the Fix

We are, without a doubt, a culture that worships the fix.

We fix everything—our bodies, our branding, our relationships, our skin, our stories, our kids, our faith, our feeds—until there’s no space left for mystery, for process, for anything that doesn’t come with a 24-hour Amazon Prime delivery promise.

But real life doesn’t give a damn about your need for control.
It doesn't care how many degrees you have, how emotionally intelligent you are, or how many cold plunges you’ve taken.

Because when life comes for you—and it will come for you—it doesn’t knock politely or show up according to your schedule. It arrives with a crash. A loss. A betrayal. A diagnosis. A death. A reckoning. One of the great T’s I talk about again and again with my clients: Transitions. Tests. Trials. Traumas. Tragedies.

And those?
Those don’t come with instructions.
They come with invitations.

Not to speed up.
Not to fix.
But to stay.

To sit in the wreckage.
To breathe in the dark.
To bear witness to your own pain—or to the pain of someone you love—without numbing, running, rescuing, or performing.

And that, right there, is what I call the radical act of patience.

Patience Isn’t Waiting. It’s Worthiness.

Let’s get something clear.
I’m not talking about patience in the shallow, passive, sanitized way we’ve come to understand it. I’m not talking about the kind of patience that smiles politely while quietly seething or the version that just distracts until the discomfort passes.

The word “patience” comes from the Latin pati, which means to suffer.
To suffer—not aimlessly, not endlessly, but purposefully.
To carry the burden consciously.
To choose to stay inside the fire without trying to put it out just because it makes you uncomfortable.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl quotes Dostoevsky:

“There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.”

And Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, adds:

“These words frequently came to my mind after I became acquainted with those martyrs whose behavior in camp, whose suffering and death, bore witness to the fact that the last inner freedom cannot be lost. It can be said that they were worthy of their sufferings; the way they bore their suffering was a genuine inner achievement. It is this spiritual freedom—which cannot be taken away—that makes life meaningful and purposeful.”

Let that sink in.

Frankl isn’t talking about toxic positivity or spiritual bypassing or pretending everything happens for a reason. He’s talking about something far more sobering, far more courageous, far more sacred—the ability to bear your suffering with such clarity, such dignity, such devotion to meaning, that the suffering itself becomes worthy of your life.

That’s not easy. That’s not trendy. That’s not quick.
But it’s the deepest work there is.

Stop Rushing. Start Holding.

So when people come to me begging for the fix—“Just tell me what to do”—I don’t have a formula. I don’t hand out step-by-step strategies for how to bypass heartbreak or navigate grief with grace in three easy lessons. I offer something far more difficult. Far more defiant.

I ask them to stop.

To stop rushing toward resolution.
To stop numbing the ache with activity.
To stop gaslighting their own soul with productivity.

And instead, to hold.
Hold the silence.
Hold the heartbreak.
Hold the moment.
Hold themselves.
Hold someone else.

Not forever.
Not perfectly.
But long enough to become worthy of it.

Patience as Power

This is what I teach—not only to the men I guide through midlife, not only to the women I support as they shed the roles they were handed and step into the truth of who they are—but to every human soul who walks through my door asking for something real.

I teach the kind of patience that doesn’t look soft, but strong.
The kind that doesn’t look weak, but willing.
The kind that isn’t about sitting still, but about standing firm in a world that keeps yelling “move faster.”

I teach the patience that shows up in the form of a man who listens without interrupting, even when his partner is unraveling.
The patience of a woman who holds her daughter’s confusion without launching into a solution.
The patience of a father who allows his teenage son to cry—without telling him to stop, or suck it up, or “man up.”
The patience of a friend who picks up the phone and just breathes while another friend breaks down.

That kind of patience?
That’s not passive. That’s not avoidance. That’s not weakness.

That is strength.
That is mastery.
That is presence.

That is what Frankl called the “last of human freedoms”—the freedom to choose how we respond.

The Fire Won’t Kill You. Running Will.

So many people fear that if they stop doing, they’ll drown in the pain. That if they stop fixing, they’ll fail the test. That if they stop moving, they’ll fall apart.

But here’s what I know from years of sitting in the fire with clients, and from my own journey through heartbreak, death, betrayal, suicide, and loss:
The fire won’t kill you.

What will kill you is your refusal to face it.
What will kill you is the lie that you’re not strong enough to hold it.
What will kill you is the addiction to quick answers and fast escapes.

Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is nothing.
Not because you’re helpless.
But because you’re choosing to stay.

Because you’re choosing to become worthy of what’s breaking you.

Don’t Miss the Invitation

So here’s my invitation to you. Right now. In this season of your life—whatever it looks like, whatever it feels like, wherever it hurts:

Stop asking for the fix.
Start asking for the meaning.
Stop asking how to make it go away.
Start asking how to become worthy of carrying it.

Because the pain is here to shape

you.
Because the ache is here to wake you.
Because the fire is here to forge you.

And all of it—not one moment wasted, not one tear in vain—can become sacred ground if you learn to stay.

Dr. Baruch “B” HaLevi
Logotherapist | Enneagram Teacher | Meaning Mentor | Spiritual Guide | Fellow Firewalker

“Sometimes the most radical act isn’t fighting, fixing, or fleeing—it’s waiting. It’s staying. It’s choosing to become worthy of your suffering.”