Watch | A Real Pain: A Film for Those Who Feel Too Much

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” - Mary Oliver

Jesse Eisenberg’s A Real Pain is not just a road trip movie, nor is it simply a meditation on grief, history, or the idiosyncrasies of family. It’s all of those, and, at its core, a film made for empaths—particularly for those who feel pain so deeply that it becomes a defining aspect of their existence. This is a layered story about the pain continuum, the way suffering manifests in nuanced forms, both seen and unseen, and how it ties us to our past, our relationships, and ultimately, our shared humanity.

Pain is everywhere in this film, threading itself through generations and seeping into the spaces between its two foiled protagonists, cousins Benji (Kieran Culkin) and David (Jesse Eisenberg). Their journey through Poland, retracing the footsteps of their Holocaust-surviving grandmother, serves as both a literal and emotional pilgrimage—one that exposes how deeply they (and we) struggle to carry, interpret, and live alongside suffering.

Andrew and I watched it for the first time at his parents’ home in Florida this past January. I found it to be incredibly moving, hilarious, awkward, and comforting—a swirl of mixed emotions and a grab bag of feelings, not unlike how I feel nearly every day.

Let’s dive into these two compelling characters, shall we?

Benji’s pain is loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. He is the embodiment of invisible, internal suffering—depression that lingers just beneath his quick-witted, chaotic persona. His humor is a heavy shield, his energy a frantic attempt to outpace the darkness trailing him. He is exhausting, exasperating, and impossible not to love.

David, on the other hand, is rigid and contained. Tightly wound, he is the one who gets things done. They would not be in Poland if not for him. His OCD manifests as a need for control, for order in a world that has proven itself merciless. He represents the type of person who copes by keeping everything structured, compartmentalized, measured.

The contrast between Benji and David is striking, yet their differences highlight a shared, undeniable truth: pain is a part of all our lives, no matter how it manifests. Benji’s raw, visible suffering mirrors the kind of internal turmoil many of us carry quietly—an ever-present weight that may not always be seen but is felt deeply. His humor and chaotic energy are, in many ways, a defense mechanism, an attempt to ward off the darkness that lingers just out of sight.

On the other hand, David’s rigid control and compulsions show a more contained form of pain—one that expresses itself through the need for order and predictability in a world that often feels unpredictable and cruel. His pain doesn’t scream; it organizes, compartmentalizes, and measures, as though managing everything around him might somehow offer respite from the chaos within.

As I watched their dynamic unfold, I couldn’t help but recognize aspects of myself and Andrew in these two characters. I, with my deep emotional sensitivity and tendency to feel pain intensely, resonate with Benji. I have often found myself overwhelmed by the depth of my own emotions, feeling as though I am drowning in them while trying to maintain some semblance of control.

Andrew, on the other hand, is more like David. He is analytical, pragmatic, and tends to manage emotions by creating structure and logic in the face of uncertainty. He is the one who seeks to fix, to organize, to solve. He doesn’t run from pain but instead processes it through action and strategy.

This dynamic—me, the feeler, and Andrew, the doer—reminds me of how pain often plays out in relationships. It’s easy to feel like two opposing forces, each struggling with our own version of suffering. The film captures this in a way that feels exaggerated yet utterly relatable. These characters, though amplified for dramatic effect, reflect the very real ways people we know—and even ourselves—deal with pain in different forms.

Some of us wear our pain on our sleeves, while others hide it behind tightly controlled facades. Some seek connection and understanding, while others try to compartmentalize and move on. The film hits so deeply because, in these characters, we see the universal struggle to navigate and understand our own suffering while trying to find meaning in it.

This dichotomy between Benji and David, while exaggerated, also sheds light on a deeper truth: we all carry pain, but the way we carry it—how it shapes us, how we respond to it, and how we connect with others in the midst of it—is a deeply personal journey.

For me, the film became more than just a story about two cousins; it was a reflection of my own experiences with pain and how it both isolates and connects us. And in that recognition, I found a sense of shared humanity—one that transcends the different ways we experience suffering, yet still binds us together. It was that universal connection that made the film resonate so profoundly.

And then there is the monumental pain, the historical pain, the pain that dwarfs individual suffering while somehow deepening it. The Holocaust exists in the backdrop of their journey, an unfathomable wound that contextualizes their personal struggles yet refuses to erase them. It is here that the film makes its most poignant statement—pain is not a competition.

The agony of history does not nullify the private ache of a single human being. Instead, it underscores the shared reality of suffering. Watching this made me think about one of my favorite books by Brené Brown, Rising Strong. In it, she writes:

“Comparative suffering is a function of fear and scarcity. Falling down, screwing up, and facing hurt often lead to bouts of second-guessing our judgment, our self-trust, and even our worthiness. I am enough can slowly turn into Am I really enough? If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past decade, it’s that fear and scarcity immediately trigger comparison, and even pain and hurt are not immune to being assessed and ranked. 

My husband died and that grief is worse than your grief over an empty nest. I’m not allowed to feel disappointed about being passed over for promotion when my friend just found out that his wife has cancer. You’re feeling shame for forgetting your son’s school play? Please—that’s a first-world problem; there are people dying of starvation every minute. The opposite of scarcity is not abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough. 

Empathy is not finite, and compassion is not a pizza with eight slices. When you practice empathy and compassion with someone, there is not less of these qualities to go around. There’s more. Love is the last thing we need to ration in this world. The refugee in Syria doesn’t benefit more if you conserve your kindness only for her and withhold it from your neighbor who’s going through a divorce. Yes, perspective is critical. But I’m a firm believer that complaining is okay as long as we piss and moan with a little perspective. Hurt is hurt, and every time we honor our own struggle and the struggles of others by responding with empathy and compassion, the healing that results affects all of us.” - Brent Brown from Rising Strong

This is a truth empaths know well. To feel deeply is to carry not only one’s own burdens but those of the world. A Real Pain acknowledges this weight and offers a reframing. Pain is not an enemy to be defeated or an obstacle to be overcome. It is, as Mary Oliver puts it, a dark box. Not a curse, but a gift. Something to be welcomed to the table, examined, even honored.

And yet, pain is confusing, particularly in a world that treats suffering as a thing to be vanquished, as evidence of failure. This leads to shame, a sense of guilt for hurting at all—especially when others have suffered more. But the Buddhists have learned something different.

In Buddhist philosophy, suffering (dukkha) is not an aberration of life but an intrinsic part of it. The First Noble Truth teaches that to live is to suffer, and that suffering—whether in the form of physical pain, emotional turmoil, or existential dread—is not something to be outrun, but rather, accepted. Instead of viewing suffering as an obstacle, Buddhism offers the idea that pain is a teacher. It strips away illusion, ego, and attachment, revealing something more profound underneath: impermanence, interconnectedness, the rawness of being alive.

Eisenberg’s film does not offer solutions or platitudes. Instead, it extends an invitation: to sit with pain, to recognize it as a companion rather than an intruder. Suffering, after all, is not something to be conquered. It is something to be lived with—messy, relentless, and undeniably real.

And in that way, A Real Pain is not just about the pain we carry—it is about what we do with it. Whether we try to outrun it like Benji, control it like David, or accept it as an inevitable part of life, it remains. And perhaps, as Saint Mary suggests, in time, we can begin to see even our darkest boxes for what they are: gifts.

Reflection Questions

1. How do you personally relate to pain—do you try to outrun it like Benji, control it like David, or sit with it in acceptance?

2. How are you currently comparing your suffering to someone else’s, feeling as though your pain is either “less” or “more” valid? How can the idea that pain is not a competition shift your perspective?

3. What dark box in your life have you struggled to see as a gift? How has time, reflection, or experience changed your understanding of it?

4. If suffering is an inevitable part of life, how can we learn to carry it with grace rather than resentment?

Pain is universal, but so is the capacity for empathy, connection, and meaning. When we see suffering not as something to be hidden or ranked but as something that unites us, braiding us together through the beauty of a shared human experience, we open ourselves to a deeper, more authentic way of being—one where pain, love, and understanding can all sit at the same table.

xx Amanda