Pain and suffering are not exactly the same thing. Pain is an experience that touches us physically, emotionally, and existentially—one that, very often, we do not choose. Suffering, on the other hand, is the way we inhabit that pain: the narrative we construct about it, the fear that surrounds it, the solitude with which we carry it, and the feeling that it is breaking us or that it will never end. For this reason, one should be wary of absolute answers. Not all pain carries meaning. Some forms of suffering are absurd, unjust, or devastating; asking someone to turn such experiences into a "lesson" can be a form of abandonment disguised as consolation.
That said, pain is not merely something to be endured. Enduring is an initial form of resistance—holding on, surviving, staying afloat. There is dignity in this. Yet, remaining solely in a state of resistance can, at times, be exhausting and isolating. The question of meaning should not demand that every instance of pain have a heroic explanation. Instead, it might be framed differently: "What can I do with what I am experiencing, without denying that it is happening to me?" Meaning does not always precede pain—like a hidden lesson waiting to be found; rather, it is often constructed afterward—through how we choose to view the experience, how we speak of it, how we seek help, how we support others, or how we reorder our priorities.
Suffering is transformed when it ceases to be a silent experience and finds expression in words. Naming it, sharing it, weeping over it, writing about it, or—depending on the individual—praying about it, can alter its form. It may not disappear, but it ceases to be a prison without doors. It is also transformed when we develop a different relationship with vulnerability: by accepting that we are not invulnerable, that we need others, and that life inherently includes loss. This acceptance is not resignation; it is a form of clarity that allows us to care for what still matters.
However, transformation is not the same as justification. Pain does not become "good" simply because it helps us grow. Sometimes, it leaves us more fragile, more weary, and more distrustful. Transformation is neither a moral obligation nor a test of strength. There are pains that can only be acknowledged, held, wept over, and endured. And there are people who do not manage to transform their pain—yet that does not make them any less worthy. The language of "growth" can be cruel when imposed from the outside.
Perhaps the most honest answer is this: pain does not have a guaranteed meaning, but it can acquire meaning as we integrate it—without lying to ourselves. It transforms when there is support, time, and care—and when we find a way to go on living that neither erases the wound nor remains trapped within it.
And sometimes, when transformation is not possible, what remains is support: the presence of another person, a simple daily routine, a kind word. Not everything is transformed; not everything is merely endured. Between these two extremes lies the human task of giving shape to what causes us pain, without demanding that it become something beautiful.
Credits: I used Google Translate.
The image was taken with my Samsung Galaxy phone.