I've been guilty of all of these at different times in my life. And for years, I wondered what the alternative was. I felt sandwiched by indecision and fear, unable to move forward, unable to choose a path. I craved guidance, advice, or mentoring, but all my elders seemed to be just slightly older versions of me: still wary, still playing it safe, still tip-toeing around when what they wanted was to take a leap.

In ancient cultures, there was always an initiation that brought young boys into manhood. This initiation was marked by the removal of the boys from the comfort of the mother, the hearth, the family, and into the arena of men. Part of this initiation would always be some sort of ritualized discomfort: scarring, tattooing, fasting, isolation or sacred combat. This was always done in the highest reverence of the initiate, and was not meant to hurt, per se, but to be a felt experience of what the boy's life would be like as an adult. It was if to say: manhood is uncomfortable. Here, this is how it feels to be a man.

Because these kinds of initiations into manhood no longer exist on the whole, we tend to stay a little too long—collectively—in our comfort zones. Many of us opt for ease over risk if given the choice: rather than sharing our bold, creative idea IRL at the meeting, we send a passive email days later. Instead of making a move and talking to the attractive person at the coffee shop, we slink back home only to watch porn later. And these denials of our inner urgings add up. Eventually, we lose our sense of aliveness.

One way to ease into a relationship with discomfort is to practice it regularly. And start small. One of my first intentional discomfort practices was taking ice cold showers in the wintertime in New York City. Every extra second under that water was living proof I could do something difficult. I have friends who do ice baths, cold plunges and 140 degree infrared saunas to similar effect. Others train and run in ultra marathons, while other guys cover themselves in tattoos (a very Viking move, indeed).

For other guys, the chosen discomfort will be less tactile, but no less daring. Asking for help from a therapist, coach or counselor—as any man who has done it knows—can be highly uncomfortable. Ditto sharing our authentic feelings with a circle of men in a men's group. Or maybe your discomfort du jour is launching the podcast you've been sitting on, standing up for yourself with your family, or having that challenging (but easily avoidable) conversation with your colleague or boss. Maybe it's trying out for improv. Or simply talking to a stranger. Perhaps it's adopting a dog from your local shelter. However you choose to practice discomfort, the important question to return to every so often is: “Where is an edge for me today?” And then: “How can I lean a little more into it?”

This past winter, with my head filled with images of Viking glory, I realized it would be an edge for me to learn how to fight. (It had been about three decades since my last real scuffle, when I body-slammed an eight year old bully named Kris on the playground.)

So I took up boxing. And the few hours I spend with my instructor, an ex Serbian special forces team member named Tika, are some of my most fun and expansive of my week. Having an older man push you beyond your comfort zone—it's amazing the healing effect the experience can provide, especially for those of us who lacked strong father energy as a boy. When Tika sees me slacking during a set, or dropping my arms during the third minute of a round, he rumbles like a bear in his deep, Eastern block accent:

“Cmmmonnnnn Shhhoooowwwnn.”

That kicks me right back into gear. And after most sessions I want to hug him, because he's doing for me what I struggled for years to do for myself: pushing me past my edges into the unknown territory of my own personal power, my own glory. And, as the Vikings knew, that is the place where life starts to get interesting (and perhaps a bit spiritual, too).