There’s a phrase people love to toss out when you’re going through something hard: “This too shall pass.”
It’s meant to be comforting. The subtext is, “Don’t worry, this won’t last forever.” And on my best days, I can nod politely and accept it for what it is. But on my tired, cranky, over-it days? I mutter under my breath, “Yeah… like a kidney stone.”
It makes me laugh every time. Not a belly laugh, but the kind of half-snort, half-sigh that comes when you realize life’s absurdity. And honestly? That little quip keeps me grounded when things get tough. Because the truth is, “This too shall pass” doesn’t mean it will pass smoothly or gracefully. Sometimes it passes like jagged little rocks through a super tiny straw.
Here’s the wild part, though: there have been studies—actual peer-reviewed science—that show one of the best ways to pass a kidney stone is by riding a roller coaster. I’m not even making this up. Researchers at Michigan State found that riding Big Thunder Mountain at Disney helped patients pass kidney stones nearly 70% of the time. CBS even did a whole news story on it. Imagine a doctor saying, “Sorry to hear about your pain. Here’s your prescription: Disney World.”
And isn’t that just life? You think you need rest, calm, stillness, and instead the universe straps you into a squeaky roller coaster seat, yanks the safety bar down, and says, “Hang on, sweetheart.”
You don’t look graceful on that ride. You flail. You scream. Your hair sticks to your lip gloss. You’re convinced you’re about to die at least twice. But somehow, that chaos is what shakes something loose.
Which is why I can’t take “this too shall pass” at face value anymore. It’s not wrong—it just feels incomplete. People usually mean well. They want to remind you that whatever you’re facing is temporary, that the storm will blow over, that the pain has an expiration date. And that’s true, mostly. But when you’re in the middle of the storm, it doesn’t feel comforting. It feels dismissive, like someone is patting you on the head while you’re actively trying not to drown.
That’s why I prefer the kidney stone version. It admits the obvious: yes, it’ll pass, but no one promised easy. No one promised it wouldn’t hurt like hell or make you question all your life choices. But it also implies something else—movement. Kidney stones don’t pass by sitting still. They pass by moving, by walking, by drinking water, and apparently by flinging yourself around on a theme park ride.
Sometimes we think endurance means stillness, that the best way to make it through is to hunker down and wait for the pain to move past us. But more often than not, what actually helps us is motion. Not frantic busyness or denial, but the kind of forward momentum that says, “I may not fix this today, but I can keep going.”
Even laughter is movement. Humor is how we ride the dips without losing our minds. That muttered “like a kidney stone” joke isn’t just sarcasm—it’s survival. It’s what helps me unclench just enough to keep showing up.
Which brings me to the best piece of décor in my entire home office: a framed canvas of six dogs on a roller coaster. Each one has a different strategy. One’s covering his eyes, clearly regretting every decision that brought him there. Another’s got his paws thrown in the air like, “LET’S GOOOO!” A third has jowls and ears flapping in the wind, pure bliss in the chaos. And the others? Somewhere in between—half-thrilled, half-terrified, but still strapped in.
That’s us, isn’t it? That’s how we face the hard stuff. Some days I’m the eyes-covered pup, wishing I could skip the hard part. Other days I’m the reckless one throwing my arms up, deciding to laugh in the face of what I can’t control. And on rare, magical days, I’m the jowly dog, wind in my face, grinning like an idiot as the ride jerks me around.
But here’s the kicker: no matter which dog you are, you’re still on the roller coaster. Still moving forward. Still headed toward the end of the track.
And that’s the real comfort of “this too shall pass.” Not that it’ll be painless. Not that it’ll be graceful. But that eventually, no matter how you ride it, the track does end. You’ll stumble off shaky-legged, hair a mess, muttering, “Never again.” And then, of course, life will nudge you right back in line. Because apparently we’re all gluttons for metaphorical roller coasters.
So maybe the best we can do is laugh about it. Make the muttered joke. Buy the silly dog canvas. Remind ourselves that even if we’re the eyes-covered pup one day and the jowly, flappy one the next, we’re still moving forward.
This season will pass. But while you’re in it, maybe you scream, maybe you laugh, maybe you cover your eyes and mutter every swear word you know. Or maybe—just maybe—you throw your hands up and let the ride shake loose what it needs to.
Because here’s the truth: no one’s grading you on form. You don’t get a trophy for “quietest sufferer” or “most photogenic meltdown.” You just have to stay in the cart and keep moving forward.
Maybe that’s the secret: we don’t ride roller coasters because they’re smooth. We ride them because they make us feel alive—because even in the chaos, there’s a thrill that reminds us we’re still here. And if science is to be believed, the bumps and jolts are actually part of what helps. The wild ride, the screaming until your throat’s sore, the laughter that sneaks out in the middle of tears—that’s all motion. That’s what shakes something loose and gets you through.
So yeah, this too shall pass. Probably not gracefully. Definitely not painlessly. But it will. And when it does, you’ll step off the ride wobbly, sweaty, hair sticking up in weird places—and still standing. And that right there? That’s victory… even if it feels a little like passing a kidney stone on Big Thunder Mountain.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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