Or: why stepping out of our comfort zone isn’t just a step…
I recently had a thought-provoking conversation with a friend — a fellow artist and also a coach for neurodivergent people. We were talking about comfort zones and how, for many autistic people, stepping outside of that comfort zone can feel more like stepping off a cliff than taking a simple step.
He said something that stayed with me:
“I just don’t understand why it’s so scary. I mean, it’s just a small change, right? Something similar. Something potentially joyful. Why the resistance?”
His example was a client who plays electric guitar. One day, he suggested trying an acoustic guitar instead. After all, it’s still a guitar, still music, still strings and sound. But the reaction was immediate and fierce: No. No interest. No desire. No way.
He couldn’t understand why.
But I could.
So I offered him a metaphor:
“Imagine you’re on my balcony, and you say how lovely it is to sit out there, enjoy the air, look at the view. It’s peaceful. Familiar. Safe. And then I say: why don’t you sit on the edge of the balcony instead? Dangle your legs over the side. It’s still the same view, still the same breeze. Just one small shift. That’s all.”
He laughed and said, “No, thanks. I could fall.”
“But why would you fall?” I asked. “You’re not falling now, just sitting on a chair. What makes the edge more dangerous?”
“Because the risk is real,” he said. “And I’d rather not take it.”
And that, I believe, is the essence of what so many autistic people feel — what I myself often feel.
The world is full of invisible cliffs.
What looks like a small step to someone else — trying a new instrument, visiting a new place, meeting new people — might feel like a giant leap into uncertainty for someone whose nervous system has learned, over and over again, that newness equals risk. That unfamiliarity can mean sensory overwhelm, social confusion, miscommunication, rejection, even humiliation. That deviation from what is known can lead to pain, to chaos, to emotional freefall.
So no, it’s not just an acoustic guitar.
It’s not just a change of venue.
It’s not just a new group of people.
It’s the edge of the balcony.
And when you’ve fallen before — when you’ve burned your fingers, when you’ve walked through social spaces that feel like minefields — staying on the chair feels wise. It feels earned. It feels like survival.
I suppose what I want to offer here isn’t a tidy solution or a motivational message. I’m not here to say “just push yourself!” or “everything good happens outside your comfort zone.” Because sometimes, the comfort zone is where we rest, recover, and reclaim ourselves. Sometimes, it’s where we learn to trust again. And sometimes, we step out — not because someone told us to, but because we’ve found the inner steadiness to try. Other times, the bravest thing we can do… is to stay where we are, until we’re truly ready to move.