I love the word and all that it holds. I remember when I first learned it, and even though it carried a negative connotation, I felt relieved. Finally, a word for that inner turmoil—in my head, in my heart.

I was part of a reading project that strongly advocated for a structured literacy approach. At the same time, I attended district literacy coach meetings where mini-lessons,  reading conferences, and read-alouds were the center of the work.

Each time I moved from one space to the other, the dissonance lodged in my throat like a piece of stale bread.

Years later, at an equity conference, I learned about the zone of dissonance. We stood in concentric circles, moving inward or outward based on how safe or unsafe a situation felt to us. What was safe for one person could feel risky, even dangerous, for another.

But what stayed with me was the middle, the zone of dissonance.

The facilitator told us that this is where change is possible. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but not unsafe. It might raise your heart rate, but it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest. It’s a place where you can still listen, still think, still consider something new.

I’ve thought about that space for years, especially when I feel it show up again, that tightening in my chest, that pause in my thinking.

Do I stay, or do I retreat?

More and more, I try to stay.

Because I’ve come to recognize that feeling, not as something to avoid, but as something to pay attention to. A signal that something I believe is brushing up against something I haven’t yet fully understood.

And if I can stay there, just a little longer,
I might leave with something new.