I attended a theater performance some time ago titled Grandfather Beppe. The story tells of a man born at the beginning of the twentieth century who lived through wars, emigration, and social revolutions. A man who had to constantly reinvent himself to stay afloat, holding on to memories as if they were strands of wool not to lose in the whirlpool of time.
How many similar stories could still be told today?
People with lives full of experience and memory, yet who often find themselves alone, disoriented, as if the world had changed its language.
On the night of the performance, I came across a peculiar news story: a man had died after fifty years without being able to create new memories. Each day was a new beginning — without a past, without nostalgia. An existence suspended between memory and oblivion.
A few days later, in a small restaurant, I noticed a table of about twenty women. They were gesturing animatedly, but in silence: they were all deaf. A united, serene group, while the waitress seemed uncomfortable, unable to communicate.
And I asked myself: what is discomfort, really?
Discomfort today: being out of place in a “perfect” world
Today, discomfort is not only physical or psychological: it is digital, cultural, and social.
We live in a web that glorifies perfect models, simplified emotions, and fast thoughts.
Those who don’t adapt to the rhythm of algorithms are seen as “out of place.”
But who decided that standardized comfort equals happiness?
A world that measures everything in likes and performance makes us forget that human value also comes from fragility.
Artificial intelligence amplifies this paradox: the more machines learn to imitate our voices and gestures, the more we risk losing the genuine act of listening to ourselves.
Knowledge seems to become secondary, while appearance and speed become the new forms of competence.
Discomfort as a form of awareness
I don’t mean to disrespect those who face disabilities or real suffering.
But I wonder: if the world were designed to include, not to exclude, how much discomfort would vanish?
You can see it every day — on trains, on social media — people who feel “different,” not because they are, but because the environment doesn’t know how to welcome them.
Discomfort, then, is not within the individual: it lies in a society that fails to see diversity as richness.
Think of psychological discomfort, loneliness, or the inability to truly communicate.
These are subtle forms, often invisible, yet widespread.
In an age where everything is measured by engagement, empathy has become a revolutionary act.
Recognizing one’s own model
The story of Judy Garland, mother of Liza Minnelli, comes to mind — a bright life on the surface, yet marked by deep pain and an ultimate tragic act.
I don’t believe in inevitable destinies: much of our discomfort arises when we try to conform to models that don’t belong to us.
Recognizing one’s own model, one’s essence, is perhaps the first step toward authentic freedom.
Sharing discomfort to rediscover humanity
Discomfort is not an illness — it’s a human condition. It’s what makes us real.
In the digital world, it can even become a bridge.
I’ve often met people online — sometimes on social media, sometimes within communities — and discovered that a shared struggle can open a sincere, profound, and immediate dialogue.
Discomfort, then, is not just suffering. It’s a form of understanding.
It can become the foundation for a new way of thinking about the future, even within a web populated by increasingly sophisticated artificial intelligences still unable to feel compassion.
Let’s look around: discomfort lives in all of us.
And perhaps, sharing it is the most human way to remain human.
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