Wrestling with the Divine

Rilke, Neuroscience, and the Transformative Power of Struggle

“When we win it's with small things, 

and the triumph itself makes us small. 

What is extraordinary and eternal

does not want to be bent by us. 

I mean the Angel who appeared

to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:

when the wrestlers' sinews 

grew long like metal strings, 

he felt them under his fingers 

like chords of deep music.”

—The Man Watching By Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Robert Bly)

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Jacob's muscles trembled on the brink of collapse, the salt of sweat drying on his lips and pulling at his skin. Just as he was about to surrender, the first sleepy tendrils of dawn began to part the curtains of his tent. He had engaged in an impossible struggle and emerged on the other side, surviving a night wrestling with the divine.

In "The Man Watching," Rainer Maria Rilke brings to life this scene of human striving and the transformative power of embracing immense challenges. Written at the dawn of the 20th century, a time when neuroscience was just beginning to take shape, Rilke intuited a fundamental principle about growth through struggle—an idea that science would only begin to articulate decades after his death in 1926: 

It is through engaging with colossal challenges—those that stretch us to our very limits and nearly undo us—that we undergo our most significant growth.

The poem opens with trees bending under the force of an approaching storm—a tempest that rattles the narrator's “worried windowpanes” and awakens a deep fear of being overwhelmed. Rilke suggests that we, like the narrator, often turn away from these great storms, seeking refuge in the trivial: "What we choose to fight is so tiny." We cling to tasks we know we can accomplish, shying away from the bold pursuits that might lead to defeat but also to profound transformation. How often do we sidestep risking failure—publishing a novel, learning a new language—in favor of tackling another load of laundry or clearing our email inbox? Yet, when we accomplish only trivial things, “the triumph itself makes us small”. These small victories offer a deceptive sense of control in a vast, unpredictable world, granting us fleeting satisfaction while we miss opportunities for growth.

The big things—the extraordinary and the eternal—do not bend to our will; rather, they sculpt us in ways we cannot anticipate. They force us to push to the edge of our competency, like Jacob, whose “sinews grew long like metal strings, [and the Angel] felt them under his fingers like chords of deep music.” It is through the arduous struggle against seemingly insurmountable odds that we forge stronger, fuller versions of ourselves. By daring to test the limits of our capacity—taking that leap into the unknown, embracing the challenge that intimidates us—we step into the depths of our potential. This is how we compose a life of deep music, one rich with resonance and meaning.

A century after Rilke’s words were penned, science began to catch up with his poetic intuition. In 2006, Dr. Douglas Fields of the National Institutes of Health unveiled a fascinating discovery about myelin, a substance in the brain long thought to be inert. Much like insulation around electrical wires, myelin wraps around nerve fibers, enhancing the speed and efficiency of electrical impulses between neurons. Fields' research revealed that when we push ourselves to the limits of our abilities, our brains respond by producing more myelin. This biological adaptation allows for faster and more synchronized neural communication, effectively remodeling our brains at a fundamental level.

By engaging in deep, effortful practice, we catalyze this myelination process. This might mean falling a thousand times while learning to snowboard, yet continually getting back up. It could involve shipping work before we feel ready, embracing critical feedback that pierces our deepest vulnerabilities. It is through the messy, arduous work of trying—of risking failure and enduring discomfort—that we stimulate myelin production and, consequently, improve our skills.

Such profound growth demands humility and a willingness to confront our shortcomings without allowing insecurity to cloud our vision. Exposing ourselves to ridicule and failure when we venture into the unfamiliar is inherently difficult. Our ego lures us back to the comfort zones where we are praised for flawless performance, reluctant to endure being seen as weak or fallible. Yet it is precisely in these moments of struggle—those heightened instances of emotional significance—that our minds are most primed for transformation. In the aftermath of a mistake or an unmet goal, our brains enter a heightened state of neuroplasticity, becoming especially receptive to learning and deep, lasting change. As I mentioned in a previous essay, these critical junctures enrich our mental landscape, helping us construct a comprehensive model for mastering a skill. Therefore, embracing challenges of Jacob's magnitude requires us to strip away the veneer of ego and appearance, for true advancement lies beyond small triumphs and superficial accolades. As Rilke so eloquently observes: “If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm, we would become strong too, and not need names.” Facing this storm head-on demands a clear purpose—not to appear strong, but to be strong; not to bolster the ego, but to transcend it.

This pursuit of authentic strength mirrors what we have long understood about physical exercise. Muscles grow stronger not through ease, but by enduring stress that pushes them to their limits. When muscle fibers experience micro-tears from intense effort, the body repairs them, fusing fibers together and increasing muscle mass—a phenomenon known as hypertrophy. We must, in a sense, allow ourselves to break in order to rebuild stronger than before.

Similarly, when we stretch beyond our mental comfort zones, we forge neural pathways that strengthen with each deliberate effort. Mistakes and failures are thus not setbacks on our journey of learning but vital opportunities for profound growth—moments when our brains are primed to reconstruct themselves to be stronger and more resilient than before.

In a serendipitous twist, the actual act of writing this essay became a sort of meta-representation of the concepts inside it. The writing process felt like grasping at mist, struggling to capture abstract ideas on the page. I wrote, edited, rewrote, deleted, and rearranged, yet clarity remained elusive. I was constantly assaulted by self-doubt—wondering if I would ever be able to put it all together. Then, a sudden revelation struck me: I was engaged in my own wrestling with the divine. Working at the edge of my comfort zone, my progress was messy and nonlinear. My writing unfolded in fits and starts, marred by setbacks, detours, and waves of critical feedback. I was tempted to give up rather than risk sharing something imperfect. Yet, like Jacob, I persisted—pushing through the discomfort in hopes that, through this very struggle, I might earn a new layer of myelin in my own brain.

As dawn approaches in Jacob’s tent, the angel realizes he cannot overcome his relentless opponent. In a final act, he touches Jacob’s hip, wrenching loose the tendon—the very connective tissue of his being. Yet as the angel departs, he bestows upon Jacob a new name: "Israel," meaning "one who struggles with God."

Rilke urges us to summon the courage to face our own greatest challenges. By confronting the storms that rattle our own "worried windowpanes," we transcend the ordinary and step into the fullness of our existence. It is through embracing the arduous work of realizing our deepest potentials that we become who we are meant to be in the brief, luminous pause we call life.

Like Jacob, we may near the brink of collapse, only to emerge transformed—perhaps bearing a new limp, but also a new name. Enriched by the struggle, we carry forward both the vulnerability and the strength gained from facing what nearly breaks us. This is how we shape ourselves—remodeling our brains in the most literal sense and refining our souls in the most poetic. The true victory lies not in conquering the challenge, but in who we become through the struggle.

For, as Rilke concludes:

"This is how he grows—by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings."