I have a fairly high tolerance for discomfort. But it’s a selective tolerance — and I’m glad to have it.

It’s why I can sleep on airport floors, trek through leech-infested jungles, eat insects, and spend six hours driving across a barren desert while fighting a stomach infection.

That same tolerance is why I could leap from a bridge or paraglide hundreds of meters in the sky while being terrified of heights.

The selectiveness is why I am in constant unease with the discomfort of things that most people consider normal. It’s why I have such an aversion to the idea of a long-term career path or why I never felt comfortable living in the suburbs.

I wasn’t raised this way. Most people in my family, and most of my friends growing up, they find comfort in the normal. There’s nothing wrong with that — it makes sense from a logical stance.

What doesn’t make sense is that my tolerance scale is inverse. I tolerate the discomfort that comes with what is different, but am uneased by the discomfort of convention. In many cases, the unconventional brings me joy.

This isn’t a bad thing. The world needs people on both ends of that spectrum. It’s the reason we have architects and engineers, fashion designers and tailors, composers and conductors, designers and programmers.

In whatever way that we tolerate discomfort, whether we’re driven towards or away from certain aspects of modern life, it’s all necessary. That tolerance gives us a part to play.

That contrast — that balance — is what makes the world worth living in.