Small psychic risks.

Not all risks involve bungee cords, LSD, Bitcoin—or even poles. Many risks are quiet and internal acts of courage that challenge who we think we are. Like ingrown hairs, they’re intimate—and invisible to (almost) everyone but ourselves. 

Small psychic risks are the little acts of courage we take to confront our own status quo. From small private attempts at forgiveness to choosing a less familiar route home, these moments push a door open just a crack, letting us peer at mildly terrifying situations with the same apprehension we feel using a public toilet in a Third World country. 

We call on the braver, parent-like parts of us to act in uncomfortable ways, lest complacency grow like mold on the edges of our identity. Each time we brave the unfamiliar, we meet ourselves on a different level, bare-assed surprise and disappointment included. 

These risks are vital to thriving. They keep us strong and sparkling inside even as the outside shrinks and sags and spots. They help us discover the deeper reaches of ourselves. But as we get older, risk aversion takes root, especially when it challenges our sense of identity. We resist upsetting our routine, preferring to keep things going swimmingly in our lives—familiar and predictable.

We’d rather watch our dog run away for three days straight than confront the heart-squeeze realization that some things must die so others can grow. 

And honestly, that’s not a bad way to live—it’s hard to love discomfort. But certainty about who we are and what we’re up against can get boring. And living as an expat in a foreign country isn’t a built-in exciting life, by the way. I still go to the same restaurant and order the same wrap and floss my teeth in the exact same order night after night. 

Before accepting an invitation to a new social event, I weigh the risks—will the late night be worth losing the next morning? Will the awkwardness of meeting new people be outweighed by the potential reward of making a new friend? Or will I wish I’d stayed in, cozy in bed with my Very Good Book?

In other words: will the juice be worth the squeeze? 

Short answer—opening ourselves to new adventures, even little ones, is a reward in itself, even if the outcome sucks. Why? Because with every small risk we’re reinforcing something important: curiosity over complacency, courage over conformity.

Maybe I’m speaking for all of us (and I don’t have a right to), but as a teeny tiny part of the collective I hope to contribute something, even if it’s only my teeny tiny experience. If I am to love my life, I must dose up on discomfort regularly and embrace the suffering as a natural part of the deal. The real reward is how I accept pain, work through it, and emerge on the other side.

When I started backpacking solo at 35, I’d already sniffed out my potential for playing it safe, even in the midst of adventure in new and unfamiliar places. So, I regularly challenged myself to take small psychic risks: 

Facing my fear of uncertainty by not pre-planning my train route but getting on the first one going the right direction. 

Meeting my narrow-mindedness by sleeping in hostels rather than private rooms to maintain a degree of tolerance for my fellow humans. 

Challenging my FOMO by choosing not to get a SIM card in a new country and instead relying on intermittent WiFi. 

Embracing my lisping, knobbly-kneed 8-year-old self by saying hi to the only other person at the beach bar. 

With every one of those low-stakes wagers with myself I had to actively decommission my inner rotten-toothed naysayer and call in the sequined cheerleaders. I had to swallow the familiar stone of apprehension and ask myself: stay the same—stifled but sure—or choose a different kind of discomfort?

I didn’t see the bigger “why” at the time, but those little risks felt important.

Now it seems that the greater risk, ultimately, is not shaking things up and wishing years down the road I’d had. Which raises a humbling question for all of us: which discomfort will we choose? 

It’s not easy growing up from middle age, especially when you’ve flipped your life upside down. The number of days it’s preferable to shut the windows and stare out at the world seems to multiply as we get older. Are we more tired, have more things to do, or simply more aware of our moods? There’s a stronger pull to lean back into what’s comfortable and familiar, to shrug on that same old cardigan and flip-flops, hunker down at the same coffee shop, read the same types of books. 

To draw a thick chalky perimeter of safety around our life to avoid disappointment, regret, embarrassment, or failure. I want to blame (or credit) maturity for my caution, but that’s a bit generous. Our increasing caution is probably owed more to the garden variety fear and fatigue that grow with age. Mortality is no longer a mirage in the distance; it’s road-kill in plain sight. Anything that can go wrong most certainly will if everything that actually has gone wrong is any indication (and I get my parents a little better). 

Whatever the case, trying something new or going somewhere different often demands a big inner push. But more than that, it demands that we notice when habits have become ruts and thoughts have hardened into truths. Then we unstick ourselves from who we think we are one small psychic risk at a time.

What’s risky for one person isn’t necessarily for another; we all have our own versions of pain and pleasure. For me, committing to the task of writing every day isn’t risky, but following through on that commitment by sitting my Sisyphus-ass down and pushing through the pain of a shriveling ego is. It’s much easier—in the short term—to collect flimsy verbal commitments like torn bits of paper. But ultimately, not writing is the greater risk because all those little bits of paper amount to nothing but squandered potential and stricter self-concern.

(Don’t forget that the mind is a professional trickster. I know I sometimes use writing to hide away from life, just as I use dirty dishes to hide from writing.) 

But hey—small psychic risks aren’t all so heavy duty. I went to a different Indian restaurant last month. I ordered the same dish I know and love, but I was really hungry and a little high so trying a new place felt like a bold move. The food wasn’t better than my usual Indian place, but the specials menu gave me inspiration for a piece of writing—a sweet reward. How cool that one small risk prompted another (sit down and write already!) and held my hand through it. 

The little risks don’t just whet our appetite for bigger ones or train us to face life’s “real” challenges. Maybe they satisfy a need: to observe and measure ourselves in the face of isolation and loneliness as we age. They keep the windows open and the doors unlocked, with fresh breezes blowing through. Like the etches on the kitchen wall that indicate our height at 1, 2, and 8 years old, these small but super nuanced and mostly private acts of courage mark our capacity and willingness to actively participate in life—to turn over fresh soil, plant new seeds, and keep things watered and a little wild. 

Photo: Shotgun pose. Circa 2022.