Success Requires Discomfort | My LDS Talks
- Salvatore Santaniello
- 2 hours ago
- 10 min read
What an Ironman Taught Me About Faith; Endurance; and Following Jesus Christ
Sisters and Brothers;
I want to speak today about something most of us try very hard to avoid.
Discomfort.
Not pain for the sake of pain. Not suffering because we think God is impressed by misery. Not pretending we are fine when we are not fine.
I mean the kind of discomfort that comes when God, life, responsibility, family, faith, or purpose asks us to become more than we were yesterday.
The kind of discomfort that shows up when we know we need to change.
The kind that comes when we are standing at the edge of something bigger than our current courage.
The kind that says, “You can stay where you are, or you can grow.”
And growth almost always asks us to leave comfort behind.
Years ago, when I was a Physical Education and Health major at UNCW, I wrote for the student newspaper, The Seahawk. I had a column called “On The Soap Box,” which was a pretty accurate title because I had opinions, energy, and probably more confidence than wisdom some weeks.
I was also a triathlete.
That word sounds impressive until you remember what it really means. It means you found one uncomfortable sport and said, “What if I did two more right after it?”
Swimming by itself is hard. Cycling by itself is hard. Running by itself is hard.
So naturally, some people decided the best idea was to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and then run a full marathon.
That is the Ironman distance.
And yes, somewhere in there, somebody should have asked, “Are we okay?”
But I loved it.
Not because it was easy. It was never easy.
I loved it because it taught me something I have never forgotten: success is not usually found inside the comfort zone. Success is found just beyond it, where your excuses start getting loud, where your body starts arguing with your spirit, and where you have to decide what kind of person you really intend to become.
When I signed up for the Duke Blue Devil Iron-distance triathlon, I was not a professional athlete. I was not some sponsored, polished, magazine-cover version of endurance.
I was Salvatore Santaniello: married, thirty years old, a full-time student, and a father of two children.
Life was already full.
School. Marriage. Children. Bills. Responsibilities. Fatigue. The normal weight of trying to become something while still carrying everything you already are.
My strategy for the race was simple: protect my health and get across the finish line.
That was it.
No heroic speech. No fantasy of breaking records. No pretending I was there to conquer the world.
Just finish.
Sometimes that is what success looks like.
Not glamorous. Not loud. Not impressive to anyone watching from the outside.
Just finish.
And maybe that is one of the first lessons discomfort teaches us: real success has to be stripped of vanity before it becomes holy.
We often want success to look like applause. We want it to look like recognition, achievement, numbers, praise, titles, promotions, clean photos, and neat stories.
But much of the success God cares about looks quieter.
It looks like staying faithful when nobody sees.
It looks like getting up again after failure.
It looks like apologizing.
It looks like going to work tired.
It looks like parenting when you have nothing left in the tank.
It looks like praying when heaven feels quiet.
It looks like choosing Christ when the easier thing would be bitterness, avoidance, or giving up.
Discomfort has a way of telling the truth.
It shows us what is actually inside us.
At the start of that race, the conditions were ominous. Cloudy skies. The threat of tropical storm Hanna bearing down on the Triangle. An intimidating race morning.
The swim started with the rain holding off.
For a little while, things seemed manageable.
That is often how life works too.
We begin something difficult and think, “Okay, maybe I can handle this.”
Then the storm arrives.
Two hours into the race, Hanna let loose.
Heavy rain. Wind. Water everywhere. Riders soaked and exhausted. Potholes hidden under pooling water. Flooding. Dangerous conditions. People slowing down, defending themselves against the course instead of attacking it.
That detail has stayed with me.
Sometimes in life, we are not attacking the course.
Sometimes we are just trying to stay upright.
And there is no shame in that.
There are seasons when faith is not sprinting. Faith is not smiling for the camera. Faith is not crossing the finish line with both arms raised.
Sometimes faith is gripping the handlebars in the rain and saying, “Lord, help me make it through the next mile.”
That is still faith.
Maybe that is deeper faith.
Elder Neal A. Maxwell once spoke in General Conference about being “willing to submit.” That phrase is not comfortable. It does not sound like a motivational poster. It does not flatter the natural man.
Willing to submit.
Not willing to control everything.
Not willing to be comfortable all the time.
Not willing to follow Christ only when the path is smooth and the weather cooperates.
Willing to submit.
Elder Maxwell taught that discipleship requires yielding our will to God. And I think that is one reason discomfort matters so much. Discomfort exposes the places where our will still wants to be king.
We want growth, but not stretching.
We want strength, but not resistance.
We want testimony, but not testing.
We want resurrection, but not crosses.
We want the finish line, but not the storm.
But the Lord does not usually build souls that way.
He builds us through the long road.
He builds us through resistance.
He builds us through the moments when we discover that we are weaker than we thought, but His grace is stronger than we imagined.
After the 112-mile bike ride, every participant still had a marathon to run.
That sentence is ridiculous.
After all that swimming and biking, you still have 26.2 miles on your feet.
And not a nice flat little jog either. The course was long, hilly, and exhausting. It ran from Falls Lake toward the finish in front of Duke Chapel.
That image matters to me.
Drenched, tired, worn down, and still moving toward a chapel.
I did not understand then all the ways that image would preach to me later.
Because isn’t that life?
We are all somewhere on the course.
Some are in the swim, trying to keep their head above water.
Some are on the bike, fighting wind and rain they did not ask for.
Some are on the run, exhausted from things no one else can see.
Some are moving slowly.
Some are limping.
Some are wondering whether they have enough left to finish.
And somewhere ahead, there is something holy.
Not just a chapel made of stone.
A homecoming.
A Savior.
A Father who sees the whole course.
A finish line we cannot fully imagine yet.
But we do not get there by staying comfortable.
We get there by continuing.
One uncomfortable step at a time.
There is a lie in our culture that comfort is the same thing as success.
If you have enough money, enough ease, enough control, enough convenience, then you have made it.
But the gospel teaches something different.
Jesus did not invite people into comfort first. He invited them into discipleship.
“Come, follow me” is beautiful, but it is not always comfortable.
It required fishermen to leave nets.
It required Peter to step out of a boat.
It required the rich young ruler to face what he still loved more than God.
It required Joseph Smith to walk into a grove and then spend the rest of his life learning what that prayer would cost.
It requires us to let the Lord stretch us past the little kingdom of our preferences.
That is hard.
And it is holy.
The comfort zone is not evil. We all need rest. We all need safety. We all need tenderness. Even athletes need recovery. Even disciples need quiet places.
The problem is not comfort itself.
The problem is when comfort becomes our god.
When comfort becomes the thing we obey.
When comfort decides what we will sacrifice, what callings we will accept, what apologies we will make, what dreams we will pursue, what truths we will face, what relationships we will repair, and how much of our heart we will give to Christ.
At some point, every disciple has to ask: Am I following Jesus, or am I following comfort?
Because they are not always walking in the same direction.
When I think back on that Ironman, I do not remember it mostly because I suffered.
I remember it because people from different walks of life made a long, difficult journey together and finished in time.
That is the line that still matters to me.
Together.
That race was not just about individual grit. It was about shared endurance.
Men and women of different ages, different stories, different reasons for being there, all moving through the same storm.
That feels more like church than we sometimes admit.
Church is not a museum for comfortable people who already have it all together.
Church is an aid station on a brutal course.
It is where we hand each other water.
It is where we say, “Keep going.”
It is where someone who is a few miles ahead reminds someone behind them that the hill does eventually end.
It is where we stop pretending the race is easy and start helping each other finish.
That is why judgment is such a waste of energy.
Everybody is carrying something.
Everybody is fighting wind somewhere.
Everybody has miles they do not talk about.
Everybody has moments when they wonder if they are going to make the cutoff.
So we do not need more spectators in Zion.
We need more disciples willing to run beside someone for a while.
We need more people who understand that discomfort is not proof that God has left us. Sometimes discomfort is proof that God is training us.
There is a difference between being punished and being prepared.
There is a difference between being abandoned and being stretched.
There is a difference between being lost and being led through terrain you would not have chosen for yourself.
Elder Maxwell’s message about being willing to submit matters here because submission is not weakness.
In the gospel, submission is strength under covenant.
It is not giving up.
It is giving God permission to make us more than comfort would ever allow.
It is saying, “Father, I do not like this hill, but I trust You.”
It is saying, “I would not have chosen this storm, but I believe You can teach me in it.”
It is saying, “I am tired, but I am still Yours.”
That kind of submission is not passive. It is deeply active.
It takes courage to keep going when quitting would be easier.
It takes humility to be changed.
It takes faith to move forward before you feel ready.
And maybe that is the heart of this whole thing: you will almost never feel fully ready for the thing that grows you.
You do not feel ready to become a parent.
You do not feel ready to forgive.
You do not feel ready to lead.
You do not feel ready to repent.
You do not feel ready to start over.
You do not feel ready to speak, serve, build, love, grieve, heal, or try again.
But readiness is not always the requirement.
Willingness is.
Willingness to step out.
Willingness to be uncomfortable.
Willingness to let God work with the version of you that exists right now, not the imaginary version you think He would prefer.
When I crossed that finish line before the 17-hour cutoff, I was not the same person who started.
That is the point of long, difficult journeys.
The finish line matters, but the journey changes you.
The miles reveal you.
The storm humbles you.
The hills teach you.
The discomfort becomes a classroom.
And looking back now, I can see that Ironman was never just about triathlon.
It was about life.
It was about discipleship.
It was about learning that I could do hard things, but not because I was invincible.
I could do hard things because I could keep moving.
That is a very different kind of strength.
The world often tells us strength means never struggling.
The gospel tells us strength can look like struggling faithfully.
Strength can look like trembling and still praying.
Strength can look like not knowing how everything ends and still choosing the next right step.
Strength can look like saying, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.”
Strength can look like being uncomfortable and not running away from the lesson.
So maybe success is not comfort.
Maybe success is becoming the kind of soul who can be trusted with discomfort.
Trusted with growth.
Trusted with responsibility.
Trusted with adversity.
Trusted with blessings.
Trusted with other people’s burdens.
Trusted with a testimony that has been through weather.
I believe God is far less interested in keeping us comfortable than He is in making us Christlike.
And Christlike people are not formed by ease alone.
They are formed by love, sacrifice, patience, endurance, repentance, service, grief, grace, and the steady decision to keep walking with God when the road gets steep.
So if you are uncomfortable right now, that does not automatically mean you are failing.
You may be growing.
You may be in training.
You may be learning dependence on the Savior in a way comfort could never teach.
You may be discovering strength that only shows up after the rain starts.
Do not confuse discomfort with defeat.
Do not confuse exhaustion with failure.
Do not confuse slow progress with no progress.
And please do not confuse the storm with the absence of God.
Sometimes the Lord calms the storm.
Sometimes He strengthens the rider.
Sometimes He sends another drenched, tired disciple beside us and lets us make the long journey together.
That is mercy too.
My invitation is simple.
Choose one place where comfort has been keeping you smaller than God intends.
Maybe it is a conversation you need to have.
Maybe it is a habit you need to change.
Maybe it is a calling you need to stop fearing.
Maybe it is a dream you need to stop burying.
Maybe it is repentance.
Maybe it is forgiveness.
Maybe it is simply getting back up.
Take one step beyond comfort.
Not to impress anyone.
Not to prove you are tough.
Not to earn God’s love.
You already have His love.
Take the step because growth is waiting there.
Take the step because Christ is there.
Take the step because the journey matters.
I am grateful for a Savior who did not choose comfort over us.
Jesus Christ entered the deepest discomfort of Gethsemane and Calvary so that none of our painful roads would have to be walked alone.
He knows the storm.
He knows the hill.
He knows the body that wants to stop.
He knows the spirit that cries out for relief.
And because He finished His course, He can help us finish ours.
Success requires discomfort.
Discipleship requires stretching.
But we do not stretch alone.
The Savior walks the course with us.
And through Him, one step, one mile, one prayer, one act of courage at a time, we can finish.
I leave this truth with you in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
Reference
Elder Neal A. Maxwell, “Willing to Submit,” April 1985 General Conference.