"Lean into the sharp points and fully experience them. The essence of bravery is being without self-deception. Wisdom is inherent in (understanding) emotions." ~Pema Chodron

As you might already know, in December I sliced off the tip of my finger while chopping green onions for dinner. My new chef's knife was sharper than I realized. Though my fingers were curled under (as Chef Meg instructs), I let the knife wander between my third and fourth finger. My poor ring finger was decapitated.

I immediately dropped the knife, squeezed my wounded finger and burst into tears. Words that a lady shouldn't say escaped my mouth.

"… cut off my finger…"

"…finger is gone…"

After a few seconds of shock and confusion--the profanity-laced sentences were hard to translate, and not to delve into semantics, but it was quite evident I didn't actually "cut off my finger" but just the tip--my beau sprang into action. I sank to the ground, leaned against the wall, and held my finger above my heart as he called our doctor friend and my mother.

For the next two hours, I endured some of the worst pain I'd ever experienced. I cried, I screamed a few times, and I uttered a few more words I usually don't say.

At the hospital, they deemed it an avulsion.

"Totally gone," said the doctor. "Nothing to sew on."

He said they would sterilize the wound and apply some artificial skin to facilitate healing.

Holding one's raw, exposed finger in saline solution for two minutes is sheer torture. I had two choices: fight or lean in.

Instead of fighting, I leaned in to the pain. I breathed through it, experiencing every bit of it. I stared at my heart rate on the monitor above me, and I focused on lowering that number. Through it all, my heart rate never rose above 70. I was able to get it as low as 55 beats per minute through pranayama exercises, or yogic breath control. (Essentially, I just breathed deeply.)

Soon after, the doctor gave me a painkiller.

"It's going to throb," he said. "You'll want this."

I accepted, and for the next 24 hours or so, I was slightly sedated and floating through life.

I was weepy, I was loopy, and I was snacky, craving carbs and gobbling them down. After just 1 1/2 doses of the low-level painkiller, I decided to stop taking it. Though it caused me agonizing, take-my-breath-away pain each time I bumped my finger, I endured. I breathed through it.

I leaned into the sharp edges.

In life, anesthetizing ourselves during the bad times is a tempting possibility. Whether your tranquilizer is food, drink or something else entirely, not having to experience the darkness is a welcome relief. But what does it teach us?

"The essence of bravery is being without self-deception."

"I'm fine," we say when someone asks, even repeating it to ourselves.

We want to seem brave when we're going through a tough time. We want to shield others from the pain. We want to paint on a smile and wish it into reality.

In the end, are we helping or harming ourselves? It depends. When we eat a bag of potato chips instead of dealing with a stressful day (guilty), we're harming. When we take shots at the bar instead of heading home to talk things out with our partner, we're harming. When we call a friend to quell the palpable loneliness after a break-up, we're helping. When we take a prescribed medication to allow our bodies some much needed rest, we're helping. By recognizing our emotions, dealing with them, and sharing them with a select group of loved ones, we're being honest with ourselves and gaining wisdom.

My finger has healed.

My nail and fingerprint grew back. Sensation has returned. I can type with all 10 fingers again. All that remains is a squiggly white line on my fingernail, where it was sheared off, and a tiny pink circle of new skin.

Those fresh nerve endings are sensitive, and when I occasionally bump my finger, I wince.

Each time I do, I pause and breathe, using the pain as a reminder to feel all that life hands me.