The lobster is a soft, vulnerable creature that lives inside a rigid shell. That shell protects it, but that same shell cannot expand.

As the lobster grows, the shell becomes confining. Pressure builds. Discomfort intensifies. When the pain becomes unbearable, the lobster retreats under a rock to hide from predators. And then, it casts off that shell, and begins producing a new one.

Eventually, that new shell becomes uncomfortable too. The pressure returns. The lobster goes back under the rocks. It sheds again. The cycle repeats throughout the lobster's entire life. Each time, growth. Each time, vulnerability. Each time, renewal.

"The stimulus for the lobster to grow is that it feels uncomfortable,” Rabbi Abraham Twerski observed, “if lobsters had doctors, they would never grow."

Unlike the lobster, we reflexively seek external remedies to eliminate discomfort, when sometimes growth requires our willingness to sit with that discomfort a little longer. We reach for distractions when boredom strikes. We avoid difficult conversations. We choose the familiar path over the uncertain one. We numb ourselves to every signal our soul sends that change is needed.

Times of stress are signals for growth. We know the feeling.

The most dangerous place for a lobster is between shells. No protection. Complete vulnerability. But it's the only way forward. For you, that between-shells moment is not dangerous, it's uncomfortable. When you've outgrown who you were but haven't yet become who you're meant to be.

A place where the old ways of thinking no longer serve you. Where new patterns haven't hardened into place. When you question your beliefs but haven't discovered what you truly stand for.

The voices will whisper… crawl back, stay small, choose safety. But the lobster knows there is no growth without the courage to be briefly, beautifully unprotected.