From Sweat Lodges to Solitude: The Power of Discomfort in Remembering Who We Are

Lately, I've been drawn to the edges.

Not the kind you find at a cliff or in the news, but the quieter, personal ones. The thresholds inside ourselves — where comfort ends, and something older begins.

Over the past year, I’ve found myself stepping into discomfort, again and again. Nights alone under the stars. Long hours of silence. Ceremonies of heat, darkness, song. Some you might call rituals. Others, initiations.

Each one cracked me open a little more in some unexpected way.

Why the Discomfort?

It’s a fair question because life already feels overwhelming, doesn't it? So why would anyone choose to put themselves into situations where they are freezing cold for hours on end, hungry, tired, or afraid?

Because something happens there — at that edge.

When you’re stripped of your usual comforts, there’s nowhere to hide. You meet yourself, fully. Not the curated, online version. The real one.

And sometimes, that meeting changes everything.

Ancestral Wisdom: We Used to Do This

Indigenous cultures across the world have always known this truth.

They designed rites of passage to test endurance, courage, clarity, and connection — not to punish, but to transform. These were not “nice-to-haves.” They were essential.

In Britain too, we had these practices.

• Celtic monks who fasted in caves or walked barefoot across the land.

• Pilgrimages to holy wells and windswept isles.

• Folk rituals with fire, darkness, and dancing.

• Initiation trials in clans, knightly orders, and storytelling circles.

They were woven into the fabric of becoming — not just for the individual, but for the community. Over time and generations, we've just forgotten about this.

Dadeni: A Reawakening of the Old Ways

Last year, I joined a three-year journey called Dadeni, led by Welsh teacher and storyteller Angharad Wynne. We gather twice a year in nature, to explore Britain’s indigenous spirituality — through story, ceremony, song, and land-based practice. It’s not re-enactment. It’s remembrance.

During one gathering, I spent the whole night alone under a tree. No food, no water, no fire, no phone, no torch. Just darkness, a (very) cold wind, and the quiet company of the land. Everything in me wanted to bolt for my warm bed. The cold was relentless. The night, eternal. My mind, loud.

But I stayed. And I discovered something — not heroic, but very human. That I could meet my fears. That I didn’t need to run. That I could simply be with what was.

The Sweat Lodge

The next day, together our group helped to build a sweat lodge — fusing Native American and Celtic traditions for what we believe may have been the first time this has happened. It was powerful. Twenty of us, side by side in a low dome of branches and blankets. Four rounds and four hours of intense heat, pitch darkness, and heartfelt prayers for the collective and the land.

We sweated. We sang. We released. The earth turned to mud beneath us. Tears were shed. And something shifted in all of us...

Why It Matters

This isn’t about proving anything. Nor spiritual tourism. Or performative hardship. It’s about something far simpler — and harder to come by:

• Reconnection with the land

• Reconnection with self

• Reconnection with something deeper than comfort

  
  

Discomfort humbles us. It strengthens us. It teaches us to sit still with the uncomfortable parts of being human — fear, grief, change, longing — and still breathe through them.

It’s not always easy.

But it is always meaningful.